#but its hard to get into something without the music component... sigh

[dustedmagazine]

Mordecai — Seeds from the Furthest Vine (Petty Bunco)

Photo by Richie Charles

Seeds From the Furthest Vine, the latest Mordecai record, spends 37 minutes disassembling without completely coming apart. The trio plays like a ramshackle miniature train: one moment chugging wildly, tilting and careening, the next tipping back into something like balance, avoiding the wreck. Much of the folkish psychedelia from 2020’s patchy, engrossing Library Music is carried forward. Yet here, Mordecai both raises the intensity of the commotion and channels it into a more structured rock and roll. Seeds from the Furthest Vine, for all its thrashing, tends to find a tuneful coherence in the clatter.

Wild whistles follow the title track’s hop to its sequel, “Seeds from the Furthest Vine Part 2.” The guitar’s nodding, muted strum is right from the 1990s Darnielle school of straight-to-boombox longing. And as in many of those brief, early Mountain Goats songs, Mordecai builds up a shimmering aura in the atmosphere trailing off their simple, repetitive playing and dissonant detours. The brightness is moving. Something similar and wistful is achieved on “Oval Door” in the dogged, is-it-quite-tuned quality of the guitar and forceful hand-drumming. Still, disorder is never far away. “Oval Door” opens with the lyric “I am not in my right mind/as she stands by the oval door.” What’s going on is not exactly clear, but that we’re headed “a long way down” to somewhere is hard to deny. Even “Minted,” perhaps the record’s most staid song, with Holt Bodish annunciating a la Jonathan Richman and playing light, wind-bent chords, erupts in clean, treacly bursts of micro-strumming and clustered notes by the end.

Beyond the natural fizz of the recording style, there’s little distortion applied to the band’s amplified instruments. It’s the practiced unsteadiness of the playing and the exploratory percussion that creates the album’s ambient menace. Perhaps the most menacing, if not the most overtly abrasive is “Meat on a Stick.” It reels, distraught with thin, vertiginous guitar notes which teeter over the tinny explosions from Gavin Swietnicki’s drums (or is it trash can lids?) behind them. The sound is severe and intimate, with Bodish, somewhere between a mumble and cry, spinning out about “a perfect world” and “rotten flesh.” “Never Get Ahead” packs a more robust punch. A keyboard drone shifts up and down; it’s more mechanism than music. Take your pick: ten fingers jamming out a torrent of approximated chords or an exhausted car engine barely turning over. Either way, the band works “Never Get Ahead” up to a pounding ache.

“Divine Sea” is a highlight, both in the sense that it’s one of the album’s best songs and because it illuminates the fundamental elements. We get ranting, rambling bursts of lead guitar, but also a thick, discernible bassline from Elijah Bodish, which girds Holt’s humming, one-sided conversation. Swietnicki, for his part, could be hammering out the beat with screwdriver handles on a cardboard box. The sound is the album’s character distilled: wry and raw, drunk but mostly lucid. If “Divine Sea” is a showcase, then, in an apt bit of sequencing, the seven-minute closer “Down In An Alley" feels like a summation and even a lurch further. H. Bodish’s guitar alternates between chipping away at the space and peeling it back in great, metallic tugs while sundry percussive components, instrumental and otherwise, detonate in the background. What’s probably an accordion sighs. Gleeful, cheapo keys add to the texture and personality. It’s sprawling and wanton; a loose, petulant pleasure. Music that might be described in terms of heavy machinery with a different band is, with Mordecai, the sound of passed down hand tools and decayed electric saws whirling and chirping; the clanks and whines sparking out from under a half-open garage door down the block, or, indeed, alley. To wander over, even just to rubberneck, is to be drawn in.

Alex Johnson

[stressfulsloth]

Six Sentence Sunday

(and it's taken me so long to do it that it's actually Sunday again 😂) I was tagged by @findusinaweek thank you :))

I do have six different fics on the go right now because I am terrrible so I will do a bit from each! *More than a sentence because I feel like it's odd out of context!*

1. Kim does not like to be seen as a picky eater. He is a grown man, closer now to 50 than to 40, and certainly not a child who spits out his vegetables because they’re yucky. He will eat food that he doesn’t like, tolerate it in public if he has to, but he has to admit; before Harry, he was mostly subsisting on a diet of plain chicken, rice, butter pasta and fruit. Harry in the kitchen is a whirlwind but he presses up against Kim’s food boundaries gently, gets him to try new things without rushing headlong. This tomato pasta, always with a slightly different blend of herbs every time, is his latest success.

2. Kim sighs imperceptibly and takes another one of your fries. Your eyes follow its path through the air to his mouth. His lips, plush, full. Like a girl’s, a voice in your head chimes in. They look soft. His teeth are enticing too; there is nothing bestial about them. They are neat, flat, human. Slightly overcrowded. His canines are prominent, but no more than any other average Revacholian. Neat and almost-white. You imagine those neat white teeth extending, drawing out, elongating into a lupine snout, all sharp and dangerous and slavering. Out of control for a moment. It’s hard to picture.

3. You lean across as the music swells, builds, and place an open-mouthed kiss to his neck. You hear him sigh-

Is that irritation or interest?

-and tilt his head, allowing you more access. Your nose brushes his ear, and your lips find his pulse. You scrape your teeth over the vulnerable point. His skin in the half darkness is nearly luminous. He’s far more interesting than anything going on on the flickering screen. “Harry,” he says, low and warning, voice swallowed by the soaring strings of the soundtrack. “Behave. Watch the movie.”

4. The glass shards sparkle like diamonds on the tarmac, like a chain of princess-cut diamonds around the throat of some nineties movie star. When Ruby hooks the door open from the inside and the utility light switches on, clambers up and into her seat, mindful of the shards, she sees that her posters have been moved. Laid out on the seat. Tippe Tijonne looks back at her in black and white with big hooded eyes carved out in black shadow. She’s missing a cigarette and a glass of wine, Ruby thinks. Then she crumples the poster into a big ball and drops it out of the window.

5. It's a close fit in here, the waterproofed fabric cocoon keeping in the vapour of their breath. Kim can't sit up all the way; the roof hangs low and when he accidentally touches it it's wet and cold against the crown of his head. The air smells intensely of Harry, of slightly astringent sweat and something murkier, of apple shampoo and those sickly-sweet hard candies that he throws back constantly to keep his mouth occupied. The heat of him, barely inches away, rising off his body. The cold seeps up from the cold clayey dirt and burrows into his bones. There is too much distance.

6. It is early evening when Kim is waylaid on his way back from putting the bins out. It is Thursday, and the garbage trucks come on Friday morning while he sits at the window drinking his first cup of tea and watching the hydraulic metal arm grind and clunk as it hoists up the blue plastic can. He enjoys the levers, the sliding metal components polished clean by years of repeated motion, and he can’t say that he doesn’t see the appeal of watching the strong sweaty guys who come alongside with the truck either. Worker bees bringing back offerings to the hive. He would have liked to have got a chance to work on one of those trucks, their unfamiliar anatomy and their dense, beautiful, complicated...

All that to say that putting the trash out was not a household task that he particularly minded. It was the conversation it entailed that was the problem.

I don't want to put anyone on the spot so if you feel like you want to do this please do!! I'm going to tag @electromelancholy and @lastwave because I think I remember both of you saying you had things you're working on? But if I'm wrong feel free to ignore!! 💜

[wickymicky]

whenever ive watched a lovelyz video, like, if i had seen just a photo of each of the members, none of them look like they would be singing songs like these except for maybe kei... 

maybe earlier they looked more like their music, cause yein looked like this in 2015:

but she looks like this now:

but as far as i can tell (i havent heard everything theyve ever done), their concept hasnt really changed.... their looks have but their music is at least in the same vein as their other stuff. and that’s fine, especially if theyre happy to be doing what theyre doing and are proud of their careers, i just hope that’s the case... like yein in that second image looks like she would catch someone listening to ah choo and make a face like “ew, what are you listening to” but she sings and performs that song all the time... 

this isnt a post where i’m making some big point or whatever, i’m just saying it’s confusing as someone who doesnt know much about them, lol. like i watch a video for the first time, and i just cant help but feel like theyre giving me a different visual energy than the song is giving me... and tbh, i think i would be more interested in something that sounded like the impression i get from how they look and act... some of them give me vibes that remind me of like mamamoo or current-day apink or something... hmm

[umbrellalad]

An Excerpt from a Book I’ll Never Finish

The Galaxy and all it’s Stars

Why is quiet so hard to hear? Sitting in the quiet, listening and thinking and all I can hear is the static in my brain. No matter what I do I can’t turn it off. Even when I try to use it all the thoughts do is jam together, running into each other jumping around until all it’s caused is a headache. I try to sort them out, to figure out what it is the universe is trying to whisper in my ear, but all I hear is noise, noise, noise, until I have to just stop trying. 

My thoughts are as vast and as jumbled as the universe itself, so you’d think we speak the same language, but I guess the two don’t mix, because all I can hear is static. My room reverberates with the stuff. A box full of echos only I can hear. Still, it’s better than outside, where all of my thoughts are trapped inside my own head. Outside they swirl in the wind, forming a cloud around my head. I have to reel them in, chain them up to keep them from running out. I don’t know why they’re so hard to control. Others don’t seem to have a problem with controlling their own heads. They walk around perfectly content with the way they’re thinking, the way they’re acting, the way they’re talking. To them the world is nothing but hopscotch for one to enjoy. For me the world is a tight-rope across a windy canyon. One wrong step and it all goes tumbling down, down, down.

I find comfort in the universe. With something so colossus and magnificent, how can anything I do possibly ruin it?

Still, at times it feels like the universe is shrinking in on me. Gravity increases and the galaxies collide in on themselves. Then I go to bed. Wake up. And the universe has begun expanding again. 

Waking up today was easy. Summer had begun. I no longer had to worry about the load of homework or projects piling up while I sat in my room doing nothing.

I roll over and look at the clock at the side of my bed. It’s a retro rectangle of an alarm clock, because somehow turning the clock face into a rectangle made it more desirable then. 

9:26. Not a bad time to wake up. Early enough that I haven’t wasted the day away, and late enough to feel like it’s too late to go back to bed. 

So I get up. Whatever extensional crisis took it’s turn last night has retreated back into the basements of my brain. If it was a good day hopefully I wouldn’t have another one until at least four.

Downstairs my mom is cooking breakfast for my sisters and my brother. I can smell the bacon as I walk into the kitchen. What would be described as a peaceful, welcoming scene to wake up to is anything but. There’s not so much serenity and love in the air as there is simply hunger and tension.

My youngest sister Brielle is sitting at the table, smearing scrambled eggs on the table. Now with this behavior one would guess Bri is three? two? She’s ten. My theory is she doesn’t have that little voice in our heads that tells us our actions will have consequences. Or that she does have this voice, but only listens to it when the consequences include her. She knows that she could get up from the table right now, and Mom would go over and clean it up without a second thought.

The twins Adalyn and Asher are play fighting. A game that will without doubt turn into a real duel the moment one of them knocks their elbow the wrong way on the couch. They’re both 13. Old enough to know that actions have consequences, but still too young or too sociopathic to care. 

My mom sees me first. She’s making more eggs for Adalyn and Asher along with frying bacon. “Morning sweetie, do you want anything?”

White Dwarf

A white dwarf, also called a degenerate dwarf, is a stellar core remnant composed mostly of electron-degenerate matter. A white dwarf is very dense: its mass is comparable to that of the Sun, while its volume is comparable to that of Earth. A white dwarf's faint luminosity comes from the emission of stored thermal energy; no fusion takes place in a white dwarf.[1] The nearest known white dwarf is Sirius B, at 8.6 light years, the smaller component of the Sirius binary star. There are currently thought to be eight white dwarfs among the hundred star systems nearest the Sun

My mom is a white dwarf. She was once a shining star, a radiant young woman, full of life, energy, and excitement. When she was young my mom would go on spontaneous adventures with her friends. They would go skydiving or cliff jumping or bar hopping or just go on a road trip to the middle of nowhere. I’ve seen pictures from back then. She looks so free, so unburdened. When Mom had kids that part of her life took a decline, and when my dad left it ended completely. No more time for spontaneity. No more opportunity for it either. Now she’s only a remnant of the woman she used to be, but she still manages to give off the same warmth. 

I know she has a lot on her plate, so I try to stay out of her way most of the time. I do my best to be self-sufficient and try not to cause her too much worry. 

I wish I could be more like she was, when she was a kid. I find it hard to even leave the house without planning it a day in advance. She would board a plane and fly to Italy without a second thought. My life consists of the same thing everyday, no changes, no excitement. Is it because I made it that way or is it the way it was made for me?

I say no, like I always say no. Not because I don’t want to accept her hospitality, but because I don’t want to add to her plate of things to do. 

Nor do I want to partake in this mess we call a home life.

I grab a banana from a bowl on the table and sit on the opposite side of Bri. I look down at the egg she’s using to decorate the table. She stares at me challengingly. 

I take a bite of my banana.

Adalyn and Asher’s voices rise. Someone hit someone else a little too hard. 

Bri glares at me harder, increasing her pressure on the eggs.

Asher screams.

The banana feels tough in my throat.

The sizzling of the bacon rises.

Bri smooshes her eggs.

Adalyn yells.

My head hurts.

The scent of bacon gets thicker.

My heart picks up pace.

A cry.

A scolding.

A challenge.

A throbbing.

A yell.

I get out of my chair and go back upstairs.

My room is safe. In my room I don’t have to worry about screaming children or a messy home. The only things I have to worry about in my room are the things I create myself. Still challenging, but at least here I have a sense of control.

My headache lessens and my heart slows to its normal pace.

This house is like a prison. Everyday it feels like it’s closing in on me, tightening it’s hold on my life. There’s nowhere to go, no escape. It just drives me deeper and deeper into my own brain. 

I’m sitting on the floor. I’ve found that sitting in places where one wouldn’t normally sit when there are chairs available, is calming. It gives me a fake sense of personality.

Looking up I examine the face looking back at me in the mirror. I inherited my mother’s thick blond hair. It falls past my shoulders in ringlets. Needing something to do, I part my hair and braid it into two plaits. 

Full lips. Brown eyes. A freckled face.  Heavy brows. A pointed nose. Thick lashes. 

This is who I see in the mirror. It’s me. This is the body which my mind, my soul, my essence is encaptured. An infinity of possibilities, an infinity of features and these are the ones I’ve been graced with. An whole wide universe to choose from and this is where my soul settles. 

Oh look there’s the existential crisis. In almost record time.

I sigh and fall back onto the carpet. Stare up at the ceiling. The quiet is nice.

A crash sounds from downstairs. More yelling.

A sudden urge strikes me. Like my chest will explode if I don’t do what it says. 

I need to get out of this house.

I pull on my shoes from my closet and jog downstairs.

“I’m going to go on a walk,” I call to Mom.

She’s busy trying to talk Bri into eating some fruit with her eggs. She doesn’t hear me. I stand in the middle of the kitchen. I don’t see Adalyn, but Asher is sitting on the couch, looking very upset about the book he’s most likely being forced to read. No one sees me.

I’m used to being invisible.  As soon as the first attempt to be seen goes unnoticed, all of the others just melt away. 

I go out the front door, not bothering to take my phone with me. I don’t have to worry about getting texts. I was never really one for making friends anyways. Whenever I did find people to hang out with it always felt superficial, like they were just pretending to tolerate my company. Besides, I could never find the right thing to say. My mind wouldn’t go with the flow of their conversation, it would pick at each word, each voice inflection, each micro-expression. Trying to decipher the hidden meaning in every one of their simple sentences. 

When I was 14 I had a friend named Blake. She was my first real friend. We had met at school when she said something funny in history and I laughed. She turned around and smiled at me and I smiled back. We exchanged numbers and then every night we would text for hours. We talked about school and the teachers we hated. She talked about the boys she had crushes on and I told her why they weren’t good enough for her. We traded music suggestions and talked about how Sherlock deserved a fifth season. 

I would lay on my side in bed and smile in the glow of my phone screen. It was the best feeling in the world.

But then the spaces between her texts got longer. And I started to realize that the only nights we talked were the nights where I texted her. And then that feeling started to melt, to harden in my stomach. I worried that she felt obligated to text me back. What if she didn’t actually want to text me, and only did because she felt like she had to?

So I stopped texting her, and I waited for her to text me. 

And the text never came.

A couple times after that she would say something like “Hey we haven’t talked in so long!” and I would reply “omg what’s up?” But it was just that. An obligation. She had gotten bored of me and after a while I began to wonder why it hadn’t happened sooner.

My feet slap against the hot concrete as I walk away from home. I don’t know exactly where I’m going, but it feels good to go. I keep walking until I find myself at the edge of the sidewalk. Trees, tall and proud, loom over me. 

I step into their embrace. In the trees the air feels cooler and the light is muted. Sun shines in through gaps in the leaves, trickling over the stones and the roots. I go deeper into the woods and I feel the pressure in my head drop with each step. The world seems to sparkle and I find solace in the quiet beauty of it all. This is a place untarnished by whatever messes us humans decide to create. 

Eventually, I find what would become my refuge. It was a large pile of  massive stone blocks, shaped so that if there was a fourth side it would have been a square. But the fourth side must have fallen out, must have given way to nature, because all that remains are a few scattered blocks leading up to the top.

I like to think that it was once part of a grand castle, and that this structure was all that remained from that era we’ve romanticized so. But I live in the United States so that’s unlikely. I don’t know why it was built, or what it was meant to be, but now it stands in solitary, unbothered by whatever expectations were once put onto it.

Excited, I move towards the stones. It stands over four times taller than me, but still I climb. I crawl over the blocks and pull myself up until I stand at the top of the ruins. My heart clenches as I look down, but it’s not a completely bad thing. It’s… exhilarating. For the first time in a while I’m not stuck inside my own head. The thoughts that normally ping ponged around in my head had flown out. My mind was clear.

It was amazing. 

I felt like I was alone, sitting on an island of time just waiting. I don’t know what I was waiting for, but I didn’t mind the rest. I laid down across the stones and looked up at the sky. It was framed by the trees, a perfect little viewing spot just for me. 

I laid there for a long time. Watched as the clouds raced across the sky, eventually moving out entirely and leaving the sky open for the stars. It’s so funny how when we think of stars we think of tiny little dots sprinkled across the heavens, while in reality stars are massive, flaming orbs of heat and gas, so big we can’t even comprehend how big they really are. The sun is the closest star to Earth and we are so used to it that its mass settles slightly better in our tiny brains. But if you think, if you truly think about how immense stars, the galaxy, the universe is… Our brains aren’t big enough. 

Proxima Centauri

Proxima Centauri is the closest star to our sun. It is a small, low mass star and is a member of the Alpha Centauri system. It is located 4.244 light-years away from the Sun in the southern constellation of Centaurus. This means that even if traveling at the speed of light was possible, it would still take 4.244 years to reach the star.

The second closest star in the entire universe, and at the height of technology right now it would take 73,000 years to get there. An amount of time past comprehension. We think that time is something we observe, but time will continue long after everything else is gone. The only thing we do is give time a little more meaning, a little more use. Time goes and goes and goes and goes every if there’s no one and nothing to observe it.

I don’t know how much time I spent laying on those ruins, but eventually I stood up, climbed down, and walked home. 

Quietly pushing open the door I stepped inside. It’s moments like this I don’t mind being at home. When the house is silent everything seems a bit more bearable. The shadows give everything mystery, making each step a small adventure.

I tiptoe upstairs, making sure to step over that one stair that always groans. I peek into Mom’s room. 

She’s asleep, sprawled out across the bed. She had probably thought that I was just in my room all day. I couldn’t blame her. It wouldn’t have been off brand. 

There’s just a small part of me that wishes she would have stayed up so that we could have talked without the commotion of my siblings wrecking the house. But it’s unreasonable, it’s late and she’s tired. 

I’m tired too. Closing the door to my room I fall onto my bed. My head is still clear from my little adventure.

It was a pretty good day.

[nekomapi]

chp 1 🎶 a light in your eyes that keeps shining

Shouto stared at the keys in front of him; the black and white rectangles blurred together as he spaced out. He had been running this piece all afternoon and he couldn't be more bored with it if he tried. Each time sounded just as good as the last, but he kept on practicing- leaving no room for the possibility of error. Less errors meant less scolding from his father.

His instructor didn't have any clients this afternoon and told him he could use the piano for as long as he wanted. He took lessons here twice a week when his father had other obligations and couldn't supervise, which also meant he never had much time for himself. Luckily, these two days were such a breath of fresh air from the usual routine that he always looked forward to them.

He let out a heavy sigh as he stretched his fingers and his arms. It was so peaceful; the warm sunlight pouring through the windows, golden hues illuminating the shiny surface of the grand piano. The whole room bathed in incredible warmth, something his house felt completely devoid of.

He couldn't remember how long he had been sitting there, but it felt like hours. He yawned as he glanced at the clock, his eyes slowly trailing over to the mahogany drum set that stared at him from the corner of the room. He had looked at it longingly for about 6 months, ever since he started his lessons here. There were so many different components and they seemed so complex, like a different world he was unaware of.

His curiosity itched to no end and he finally gathered the courage to walk over to it, grazing the drumhead with his fingers as he sat on the stool. His teacher had gone on an errand and he knew she wouldn't be back for a little while. Picking up the black wooden drumsticks, he started tapping gently on each piece to test the different noises they each made. After a few minutes of self-containment, he couldn’t help but let loose. He banged the different sized drums, smashed the symbols and kicked the bass pedal intermittently, with no direction and no sheet music to follow along with. It was the most exhilarated he had felt in a long time. He played with such enthusiasm that sweat started to accumulate on his brow as he lashed about without a care in the world. He didn't notice this rarity himself, but throughout his messy performance, his face was plastered with a playful grin. His focus shifted upwards as his eye caught a glimpse of a figure and he jumped up, almost tripping over the bass drum. A young girl was leaning in the doorway, her arms crossed and a smirk playing at her features. She couldn't help but find his clumsiness amusing.

Locking on her gaze, he instantly recognized her from the family photos on his teacher's desk. It was her daughter and he didn't know much about her, besides the few details she had mentioned to him in the past. Apparently she was exceptionally talented in multiple instruments and attended a very esteemed music academy in the city. The way she always beamed when she spoke of her, made it obvious how proud she was, and that shamefully always stung him. The only pride ever displayed from his father never felt out of love and his mother, well she was a different story.

"I... I'm sorry I uh...shouldn't have-"

She interrupted mid-sentence, holding up her hand and walking towards him, "Don't apologize! I'm the one who should apologize for startling you during your performance." She smiled and jokingly added," I'm going to guess that was your first time playing? If not, well then my mother might have lost her touch."

"That was the first time." He stood up straighter, trying to play off his embarrassment by transitioning into his usual stoic gaze. "I was just... curious is all."

"Ah. Well I have to say, you look good back there."

"Thanks," he mumbled, his cheeks feeling hot as he put down the drumsticks and started to back away from the drum set.

"Whoa, not so fast." She was at his side quickly and pushed him back towards the seat. He looked at her, confusion written on his face as he sat back down. She picked up the drumsticks, effortlessly twirling one around in her fingers. "Consider this your first lesson." Something about her made him feel at ease and he couldn't think of an excuse to refuse. He nodded in agreement and she grinned.

She didn't waste any time before naming each component and explaining the proper technique and form, including fixing the way he held the drumsticks. He admired how she spoke with such emotion, using her hands when trying to emphasize her opinion and the way her eyes lit up when she rambled on about what aspects she thought were the most important in order to be a good musician. It wasn't just her bright green eyes or that faint smell of gardenia that reminded him of her mother, but it was that burning passion towards music which was so evident in their words and motions. He longed to have that kind of burning emotion towards it as well. He soaked in every word, not wanting to forget a single thing she said--- or how her hair glistened against her smooth, freckled skin.

After going over the basics for about twenty minutes, she demonstrated a few basic drum beats. Once she ran through them a few times, she handed him back the drumsticks, gesturing for him to try. He followed her instruction, recreating the beat under her guidance. It wasn't hard for him to catch on. She stood back and watched as he seemed to effortlessly repeated the sample over and over, even adding in little changes while increasing the tempo each time. It was wildly impressive and after a few minutes, she spoke again. "Can I ask you something?'

"Go ahead," he responded, still focused on keeping a beat.

"Do you actually enjoy playing piano?"

He stopped and turned to face her. "What makes you ask that?"

"Well, I heard you playing Einaudi earlier, many times through I might add. And don’t get me wrong... you play wonderfully! Probably with some of the best form I've ever heard from someone our age. It's just... it sounded a bit— robotic, or like it wasn’t coming from the heart." She pushed herself off the wall and walked to the other side of the drum set. "Listening to you play just now, and before when I came in and interrupted you, something just feels different. It's like I could finally hear you in it."

"But you've only just met me..." he stated bluntly. "How could you know something like that?" There was no doubt that he was experiencing a bit of freedom in himself today, but her analysis suddenly had him feeling a little exposed and embarrassed. These unexpected emotions were new to him.

"I'm sorry... it was just a feeling I had. I didn't mean to pry." She fell silent for a moment, having felt slightly bad for how he reacted. She chuckled in hopes to lighten the mood. "I guess with that rad hair you just totally have that whole badass drummer vibe going on." She leaned back, framing his face with her fingers and staring at him through the opening. "I mean, who wouldn't want to be the next John Bonham."

"John Bonham?"

She gestured towards a framed record on the wall behind him, feeling thankful to change the subject. "Only one of the best drummers to ever grace the face of the earth." She walked over to her backpack and pulled out her phone, unraveling the headphones wrapped around it. She tapped on the screen a few times and then handed it over to him.

His tone was quizzical as he read off the name, "Fool in the Rain by ...Led Zeppelin?"

"Have you really never heard of them?"

Shouto shook his head and her mouth dropped.

"Alright well... take it all in buddy," she motioned towards the ear buds.

He put them in his ears, pressed play and stared down at the phone as the song started. It didn’t take long for him to be hooked, zoning in on the drums and how they effortlessly worked with the other instruments to form the melody. His head started to move with the beat, following along with its rhythm. He could identify the specific sounds of each component he had learned. It's like something clicked and he understood when she had said that a good drummer can make all the difference to how the song comes together. It was the first time he had actually "heard" a piece of music. Don't get him wrong, he knew the piano could be an incredibly moving instrument, but nothing had ever spoken to him personally like this. The song was about halfway through when it suddenly paused.

"Uh, someone named ... Boomer is calling." He handed her the phone.

"Oh!" she said, glancing up at the clock as she scrambled to answer.

‘What kind of name is Boomer?’ he thought.

"Hey! Sorry if you've been waiting, I lost track of time. I'll head over n--- ....I SAID I WAS SORRY....... It's none of your business ya punk! Just chill out, I'll be there soon!" She groaned in annoyance and ended the call, "I gotta go."

She walked to where a few guitars hung on the wall and took down a black and white Gibson, placing it in the case that was on the floor beneath it.

"You play guitar too?" Shouto asked. He wasn't really surprised as his teacher had already told him in the past that she played multiple instruments. He didn't know why but for some reason he wanted to continue being in her company for just a little longer.

"Among other things, yeah. I get bored if I stick to one thing for too long."

"Dividing your efforts into multiple instruments has to make mastering one pretty difficult," he stated matter of factly.

"I think you and I may look at music a little differently. I don't play an instrument with the need to master it. I play because of how it makes me feel. I let the instrument guide me where it needs to go, not the other way around. I guess, I just don't see the point in doing something if it doesn't set my soul on fire, ya know?" She zipped up the guitar bag and walked back towards him, holding out her hand. "I'm Ronnie by the way."

He walked around the drum set and shook it. "Todoroki, Shouto." She was staring at him intensely, making him shift uncomfortably. "What is it?" he asked a bit harshly, feeling conscious about his scar.

"Oh! Sorry- ha! I was just admiring that rockstar hair of yours again." She flashed him a rock and roll sign, though he didn't understand the gesture. It wasn't just the hair that had her mesmerized, but the smooth, burned skin around his eye. She felt sad that she found it so beautiful, without knowing what kind of pain was behind it.

"Thanks? I guess." He looked away, putting his hands in his pockets.

She smiled. "It kind of reminds me of Christmas morning." He looked back at her, his cheeks feeling warm again.

"Well, I guess I'll see ya around, Shouto."

His mouth went a bit dry at the familiarity and he nodded. "Yeah. See ya."

She turned and walked out of the room. He listened as the front door opened, feeling an odd knot in his stomach as it closed. He grasped at the sensation over his shirt and went over to sit back down at the piano. He couldn't pinpoint what exactly this feeling was, but it had made him feel SOMETHING, so he relished in it. Grabbing his phone from out of his pocket, he opened up Apple Music and typed in a song. He closed his eyes, his lips twitching up slightly as "Fool in the Rain" started to play through the speakers.

_________________________

♫ music selection ♫

Ludovico Einaudi - Nuvole Bianche

Led Zeppelin - Fool in the Rain

this was the first chapter of my abandoned BNHA music AU (+ a few HQ!! crossovers)... but i think it works as a cute standalone piece. recently been debating on resurrecting this fic or just using the existing material for hcs or scenarios... hmmm 🤔

xo n.pi

[illyrianwingspans]

Do No Go Gentle: Donna

Link to song: Donna by the Lumineers

Synopsis: In which Feyre has a business meeting with a potential employer. 

TW: Vague mentions of self-harm and abuse. 

Ao3 Link

Chapter 21: Donna

Rhys

Like fucking clockwork, I woke with the rising sun.

It took less than five minutes to peel out of my sheets and pull some clothes on. Two minutes to down the shot of espresso and munch through an apple in the kitchen. One minute to creep back up the stairs quietly and open that door, just the tiniest slit—

Her figure was slumped to the side, arm dangling off the ledge of the bed. But I could see it, that steady up and down of her chest. Alive. Breathing. Peaceful.

Striking.

It was the only confirmation I needed before peeling back down the stairs and throwing on a pair of sneakers. As the pink clouds began to fade, my feet slammed against the pavement. The sun was still a blip on the horizon, Prythian wiping away the night’s remaining darkness, and with each song drowning out the noise in my ears more cars began to appear on the road as the rest of the city awoke. Soon enough, I was washed in the rays of sunshine. Sweat soaked through my thin long-sleeve, but I didn’t care. I just kept pushing.

It’d been three weeks since I ran. But this morning, I felt wired. Like my mind hadn’t turned off last night in its slumber. How could it? Not after what happened yesterday. Not after what Feyre told me last night.

I’d never felt anything like it before. It was a physical, throbbing ache in my chest, like my heart had truly cleaved in half and spilled all its venomous ichor into my body.

For some reason, it was worse than watching her perched on the ledge of the roof. Knowing that she’d been so miserable, for far longer than I could’ve imagined—

It struck something within me. Like a pianist crescendoing to the climax of a song only to play the wrong chord.

And I had no idea how to help her.

That’s what scared me the most out of all of this—despite my best efforts, Feyre’s condition was beyond my abilities. I’d done all I could out of my own personal experience to try and assuage the difficulties she’d experienced in the last three weeks, but this…

Last night, I felt completely and utterly useless. That was the worst part, I thought, about seeing someone you care about struggle with mental health issues—knowing that there is very little you can do to help. All I had were my words, carefully chosen to goad her into speaking as much as she comfortably would, and gentle enough to tell her that I was there for her, that I would support her. But all I wanted to do, all my instincts roared at me to do, was hold her. Hug her against me. Tell her that I was there, that I cared about her.

Those feelings pounding within my heart flared up again, and my foot faltered on its next step.

I stopped in my tracks. The rap music was still blaring in my ears. I ripped my earphones out, letting them dangle along my neck, and strode over to a nearby bench as I tried to shove some air into my lungs.

Fuck, I thought, I’m so out of shape.

My fingers were already dashing across the screen. Plenty of articles came up after the search, and I scrolled through them, taking screenshots of things that caught my eye. If I didn’t know how to help her, the least I could do was arm myself with some information. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a starting point.

When the steely pincers of anxiety finally unclamped themselves from my fried nerves, I was off again. There were so many other pieces of the story that seemed to root themselves in my mind, no matter how fast or hard I pushed my body, they never seemed to shake away.

I was in a car accident two years ago.

I killed someone.

It couldn’t have been her. No, I refused to hold onto that piece of illogical information my brain was trying to latch itself to. So I blasted my music up higher, and kept running.

***

Feyre

The only thing I knew how to cook was scrambled eggs.

Dad taught me how. When I was in high school, usually Elain made breakfast so I could have something in the mornings, but no one ever made me lunch. I relied on the lunch service the school provided for the ‘less fortunate’—but I couldn’t use it too often. No, if I went there every day, then the school got suspicious and started asking questions I wasn’t ready to answer. So, once or twice a week I’d go to the Home Ec room and take the cheese sandwich, apple and juice box—it was better than nothing. The counsellor would smile at me, I’d fake a story about sleeping in, missing the bus, anything but the truth that gnawed at the back of my mind.

We didn’t have money. We lived in a shitty two bedroom condo, bought with the remnants of money my dad had after mom died, and could barely pay for weekly groceries. Utilities, other household bills, dad paid when he was sober enough to read. But groceries came out of my pocket and the penance of a salary I earned as an administrative aid at school. It was only an hour or two after school, and it paid alright, but all the money went towards food.

My sisters didn’t bat an eye at the effort. They kept on their usual business, attending college on their scholarships. I sure as hell wasn’t smart enough to get a scholarship, but the financial aid department took one look at my level of income and offered to pay a hefty percentage, while the rest was covered by student loans. I thought I’d have to work those off for years.

Until he came along and paid them without even batting an eye. That, and any other outstanding debt my sisters or father had. And, and—I couldn’t leave out the wondrous house he’d bought on the other side of the city. The one we’d both helped my father move the boxes to, the one Nesta and Elain had definitely never visited after they’d moved out.

I couldn’t help but think about my dad. I wondered what he was doing right now, across the city, by himself. And the first thing that came to my mind was the bottle of whiskey sitting on the floor by his chair. He was always slumped in that chair with a faraway smile on his face. Sometimes I would sit next to him on the second hand couch and we’d watch TV together. Most of the time, I’d take one look at him and storm off to my room to imagine another life where none of it happened. Where mom didn’t die, where we weren’t flat broke, and I wasn’t miserable.

How I’d gone from the two bedroom condo to this townhouse, I didn’t want to think about. All I knew was that I’d never have to go back there again.

Because of him.

The front door opened and closed quietly, shaking me from my thoughts. I focused once again on my eggs, dividing both of them into two plates before setting four slices of bread in the toaster. When the footsteps got closer, I turned and saw Rhys there, sweat dripping down his face, rap musing blaring from his earphones. He hadn’t spotted me yet in the kitchen, his eyes on his phone. From where I stood between the stove and the kitchen island, I had a clear view of his hand reaching down to clutch his t-shirt and pull it over his head in one swift movement, ripping the earphones away as well.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t stare at his chest. Defined and smooth, pure muscle was glistening in the light from the bay windows at the front of the living room. His stomach was hardened, toned yet still soft where the tan skin heaved from his panting. And on his chest, down his biceps—

Tattoos. Beautiful, midnight blue tattoos swirling down his skin in inky swirls, contrasting his tanner colouring. I’d seen them, a peek of them that night at Rita’s, but glancing at them now, I couldn’t help but appreciate the craftsmanship behind such beauty. Art in all forms were difficult to master—but when your canvas was human flesh, it made it all the more impressive.

And on him, it looked breathtaking.

“Something smells burnt,” he smirked at me, wiping the sweat on his face with his t-shirt.

I gasped, jumping out of my stupor as I turned to the toaster. Of course, the four slices staring back at me were black. Burnt to a mother-fucking crisp.

I sighed. Of course out of the two components of this meal, I’d burn the most idiot-proof one. At least I had a reasonable excuse for it standing in the living room.

“Like what you see, darling?” Rhys called as he clambered up the stairs.

“Oh, go jump in the shower. I could smell you from down the block.”

I stared angrily down my plate as I shovelled the eggs into my mouth. The new round of toast was grilling, the toaster on a much lower setting this time, and it popped up by the time Rhys’s footsteps hit the ground level once again. How he’d managed to pull himself together so quickly—tux, gelled hair and shaven face, I had no clue, but I’d be lying to myself if I said he didn’t look immaculate. Nonetheless, I tried my best to ignore his presence after that spout before.

He grinned as he took me in sitting at the counter.

“Don’t give me that look.”

His brows shot up, but that playful, mischievous glint in his eyes remained. “What look?”

“Like a cat just caught a fucking mouse. I have half a mind to dump your breakfast in the garbage.”

“At least it’ll keep that pitiful toast you chucked away from getting lonely.” Nonetheless, he took the four slices from the toaster, deposited two of them on my plate, and dug into his meal perched on the edge of the counter.

“There’s no need to deny that you find me attractive, Feyre. Just try not to ogle me so openly next time. It was very objectifying, to be quite honest.”

My cheeks heated, and I said around my mouthful of buttery bread, “Just when I thought your level self-esteem couldn’t get any higher. You’ll probably be replaying that moment in your mind all day.”

“Got a busy day, darling. Meetings in the morning at the office and a very important lunch date that I simply cannot miss. But I will try to squeeze in some daydreaming.” He pointed at me with his fork, his plate already scraped clean despite starting after me.  “Cassian’s coming by to hang out with you after.”

I rolled my eyes. “A babysitter? Seriously?”

Rhys looked over his shoulder from where he stood perching a travel mug beneath this spout of his Nespresso machine. “Not a babysitter, Feyre. A friend. Some company. Someone other than me to talk to.”

“Sending Cassian is like sending a carbon copy of yourself but with more muscle.”

“Firstly, he misses you and wanted to spend some time together. And secondly, ouch. You ogle me, then you insult me?” He twisted the cap onto his mug and fished his keys out of the dish by the edge of the counter, making his way towards the door.

“I’ll make sure to tell the chef to poison you today at lunch!” I called down the townhouse’s main corridor.

“And I’ll tell Cassian you’ve been dying to try his new CrossFit exercises!”

I rolled my eyes, but smiled to myself nonetheless after the door shut quietly behind him.

As I gathered the dishes to be washed in the sink, my mind wandered to last night. The two of us hunched in that tub speaking quietly to each other, me unveiling the darkest thoughts curled into the back of my mind.

I’d never said those words out loud before. With him, we just ignored that it was there in the first place. Lucien and Ianthe only found out because of that one incident at a charity dinner, when Ianthe picked a dress for me without thinking twice about it, and my scars were on display for anyone who got within five feet of me. I outright refused to show up to the stupid thing, but everyone insisted I made an appearance. Once Tamlin saw why, he made an excuse. Those who asked him—because it was impolite to ask me to my face—believed they were scars from the accident.

We all knew it was a lie. Lucien tried talking about it a few times with me, but I pushed him away. How the hell was I supposed to explain that I got so furious with my own mind that I intentionally hurt myself? Every time I tried, there was this burning sensation within my chest. Shame. Shame and crushing embarrassment.

But last night seemed so…easy. I didn’t know what it was about Rhys. I just always felt the need to tell him the truth. Whether it was because he’d seen me at my worst, or because he seemed to understand me like nobody else ever had. It was so…weird. To have somebody to listen to you after so long spent trapped in the silence.

Weird, and absolutely terrifying.

But there was also that festering guilt, and shame—immense shame, for those few moments when I looked at him in the living room. When I… enjoyed looking at him.

When I enjoyed our quiet dinner together last night.

I shook my head as I scrubbed the plate, the memory dissolving in my mind.

***

After Cassian treated me to a gruelling workout at his gym, I found myself back at the house, showered and prepped for Rhys and I’s lunch. Cassian had lingered downstairs to drive me over because Rhys was still caught up in a meeting.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” I wondered as Cassian and I weaved through streets downtown. Today the city was bright, ripe with activity and flurries of people. The air was slowly getting warmer. Soon I wouldn’t have to wear a jacket anymore.

“I’ve worked enough over the past two months to take a day off every now and then. Plus, I don’t think my boss cares too much,” Cassian said with a wink.

True. It was a constant reminder that though these people were his family, he technically pulled rank over them at work, with the investigation. But when they were just together, hanging out, it completely slipped my mind.

“Are the rest of them at the office, then?”

“Azriel’s pretty much stuck to his computer monitoring any possible anomalies in Hybern’s movements. He’s got someone following him just to be safe, but so far nothing much has happened. Amren’s combing through old files and investigations affiliated with him to see if she can catch anything and researching possible loopholes to prevent him from making the sale for that land. ” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Mor’s just trying to keep calm in the building and helping Rhys out as much as she can, but things are starting to get a little chaotic.”

“How do you guys do it all?” I asked, eyes trailing upon the buildings, which seemed to get smaller and smaller as we neared the outskirts of the city.

He shrugged and said, “We’re fighting together for something we all believe in. You don’t really need much else.”

I looked over at Cassian, his hands gripping the wheel, his face passive and calm as he slowed the car to a stop before a red light. I said, “It’s nice that you all found each other. That you all have each other.”

“And now you’ve got us as well, Archeron. And we’ve got you.”

My eyes burned as I looked out the window once more.

***

I looked up to the restaurant’s blue sign. Sevenda’s.

No other buildings stood nearby. We were about fifteen minutes out of town, and Cassian had already turned back to Prythian. I was left standing here in the parking lot, clad in my best black knee length dress, staring at a diner.

Before I could take another step, the front door opened, and there was his smiling face.

“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to come in?”

“We’ll each have your special with some bannock on the side please,” Rhys said without even glancing at the menu. I shifted in the black leather booth, gazing between him and the middle aged, brown skinned woman before us. Her stark black hair was tied back in a braid that fell down past her waist line, nearly catching on the stained apron lining her body.

“It’s been too long, Rhysand. I almost didn’t recognize you when you walked in.” She reached over and ruffled his hair, as though he weren’t the CEO of a major Prythian powerhouse corporation. Her smile was warm and teasing, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners.

Rhys rolled his eyes but smiled anyway. “You’re embarrassing me in front of a business partner, Sevenda.”

“What? She’s not your date?”

My cheeks heated. I took a sip of my water, watching Rhys expectantly, wondering how this entire debacle was going to go.

“A potential employee,” he corrected her smoothly, shooting a glance my way. “Feyre keeps declining my advances, unfortunately.”

“I’ll go on a date with you the day you wear something besides black or navy.” I said, jutting my chin out at the dark suit he wore. He must’ve had hundreds of them in his closet.

“That’s my girl. Don’t be afraid to put this boy in his place, Gods know he needs it.” Sevenda turned towards the kitchen.

“Believe me, she does.” Rhys smirked as our gazes met. His eyes shifted over me appreciatively. “Did I mention you look exquisite today Feyre?”

I replied with an eye roll, “That’s the third time you’ve told me in ten minutes.”

“Just making sure you know how delicious you look in that dress.”

“Do you have any sense of self-control?”

“Of course, but it tends to fade away when a beautiful woman looks at me like that.” He tilted his head towards me and the snarl that lined my lips.

“Be glad I’m not your employee yet, I think I’d have to file a sexual harassment claim.”

“Yet?” Rhys’s eyes glinted.

“Well, if you’d get on with your proposition, I could finally make up my mind.”

He cleared his throat. “Night Industries would like to offer you a temporary full-time position as a secretary for yours truly.” I watched as he carefully took a sip of his water, his eyes trained on me the entire time. “Mor usually does a lot of that work for me, but I need her focus on the Hybern investigation right now, and I’m spread out too thin at the moment to try and look for candidates that I know and trust to do the job well. You have some experience in an office. You’ve worked in a cafe for a year now and you know what working under pressure is like. I need that kind of person right now on my team.”

Just as he opened his mouth again, Sevenda burst from the back of the restaurant with a tray perched on her shoulder holding steaming food. Immediately, a rich, aromatic scent filled the quiet space, and my mouth watered.

Swiftly, as though she’d done this for years, Sevenda slid two plates on the table filled half with rice, half with an orange, creamy stew that made my stomach gargle. She set down two extra plates with what seemed like two round flat buns that were golden and crispy.

“Enjoy!” She chirped after refilling our glasses.

I didn’t hesitate as I took my first mouthful. Creamy, warm, sweet, salty—spicy. Not overly so, but just enough for my mouth to heat. The meat was gamey, and the vegetables tasted glorious in the saturated juices.

“Why is there nobody in this restaurant?” I demanded after swallowing my first bite.

Rhys said, “Well, we’re near the reserve. They mostly only have local regulars and travellers passing through."

I shook my head. “But this is delicious.”

Rhys was beaming. He took one of his flatbreads, bannock I was guessing, and dipped it into the stew. I did so as well, and nearly groaned at the delightful taste.

Rhys said after swallowing, “I’ve been coming here since I was a child. Restaurants like this don’t really exist in Prythian, and I sure as hell don’t know how to cook this well.”

After another bite, I added quietly, “Thank you for bringing me here.”

He only watched me with that intent stare of his, then wondered, “What do you think of my proposal?”

My fork paused halfway down to the plate. “My office experience was limited, and most probably completely different from what working with you will be like.” My lips parted to add something else, And I don’t know if I can handle the humiliation of learning simple tasks. Not quite able to meet his gaze, I said instead, “I need to know that you’ll be patient with my learning process.”

“Your first twenty hours of work will be purely training, and should you ever have questions, you never hesitate to ask. We’re a team. We all help each other out.”

“Okay.” I made a gesture in my hand, and he took it as the cue to carry on.

“Your baseline job is mainly answering phone calls and emails, manning the elevator, scheduling appointments and running other errands for me should I need them. I’ll also probably have other projects on the side concerning the Hybern investigation, like the meeting we’ve got set with the Bone Carver, but those are optional. I understand you may be uncomfortable with those.”

He looked up to me for confirmation, but I said nothing. We were both quiet for a few minutes as we ate our meal, and finally Rhys wiped his mouth with a napkin, took a sip of his water, and laid both of his palms flat on the table.

“It’s a nine to five job. It’s not necessarily difficult work, but it’s still good work. Something to get you back on your feet. I’m offering it as temporary, but say the word, and we’ll sign you on for good.” He reached into his leather messenger bag and pulled out a leather portfolio case, then slid it over to me. I tentatively opened it up, eyes darting across the document before me.

“Take the time to read it if you want. It’s legal jargon, but believe me, you’re the last person I’d screw over with fine print bullshit.”

But I wasn’t hearing him, because my eyes had trailed down to the number listed at the top of the second paragraph. It was difficult to keep my jaw from dropping to the floor.

150 000$ starting salary.

“I can’t accept that.”

He sighed. “I knew you would say that.”

I’d never seen a sum like that in my life, nevertheless in my name.

“Rhys,” I said, “it’s too much.”

“I am paying you in accordance of your work responsibilities, as well as the confidentiality of the information you’re handling. You’ll have control of files and information that could put me under should anything be leaked or spread to the mainstream media. It’s a lot to expect of someone.”

I couldn’t say anything. I could just stare at that contract, unable to meet the eyes of the man who’d veritably given me a new life. No strings attached.

Just out of the pure kindness of his heart. A friend looking out for a friend.

There was that part of the back of my mind that was blaring, this is a red flag. This is him all over again.

But he never offered me the anything. He never gave me time, or space, or options, or a way out. He dictated our lives. He had it all laid out for the two of us, the way he wanted it, whether I liked it or not.

Rhys was giving me a choice. One that I could deny, and continue living under his roof until Gods-know when I got another job, and feel like a pathetic, miserable leech.

Or I could accept his kindness. I could use this as an opportunity. Maybe not permanent—maybe work that would dress up my CV. A stepping stone.

I didn’t know what was next, what else the universe had in store for me. But I knew that this job came with a team, my friends, and as Cassian told me earlier in that car, a purpose. I was lacking that, these days.

So I finally looked Rhys straight in the eyes and said, “Do you have a pen?”

[gemder]

a bubbline wip, featuring a dissociative episode by our fave punk rock vamp. set shortly after Stakes.

She doesn't know how long she's been hovering over the couch like this, with her gaze trained on the bumps and dips on the ceiling and her bass planted in her arms. How many times has she sung that old song, so old and resilient it survived the death and rebirth of the world (and the both of hers twice over, now) just by hiding in the corner of her mind she doesn't like to visit? She can't see the sun or moon rise through the entrance to her hideaway from this part of the house, and the cave-imposed darkness tells her nothing of the time or how much of it has passed.

She doesn't dare budge from her spot. She's been turned twice now; she knows from experience that any sudden action, anything to startle her base thought process, could spark that bloodlust from last time. That was some ugly biz, if she remembers correctly. It's been a while, but something like an uncontrollable urge to drain the lifeforce of every living creature within 30 miles sticks to you. She's just going to have to wait it out, until the itch in the back of her throat dies down and she doesn't worry it'll become an insatiable burning for hot blood, no matter how long it takes.

Marceline has had an excessive amount of time to learn how to be alone; 1003 years, in fact. So why does it never get any easier? Why does being left never hurt any less? Why does she seem to be so completely destined for eternal loneliness? What asshat decided she deserved to spend the entirety of her neverending life without a single constant presence?

Mom went out with promises of keeping safe and finding food and I love you so much, sweetie, that alone is strong enough to bring me back to you. It took two weeks before little Marcy came to the conclusion that her mom wasn't coming back with food or supplies, or even returning empty handed. Simon let a stupid magical crown take over every single cell of his brain and wrote a bunch of scattered letters about it while it happened instead of, you know, telling the frightened 7 year old she was going to be left soon. Dad just up and left to go back to running the Nightosphere after a few weeks, with nary a parting word nor any notice. Her post-apocalyptic comrades had no choice but to flee from an otherwise inevitable extinction. Bonnie had to go and grow up, and in the process decide that her 900-something year old girlfriend wasn't mature enough.

(She checked that old, busted up camper as often as she could over the following months. There was never another life in that thing after she hopped down the little steps and let the screen door slam back with the carelessness of a 6 year old.)

(She found a decomposed corpse months later that just happened to be wearing some torn up rags that looked like her mom’s old sweater and jeans. It must have just been a coincidence, though; there were a lot of recently dead back then, and even more moth-eaten sweaters in the world.)

(“I’m trying to save you, but who's going to save me?” ‘I don't know, old man, maybe you could have saved yourself? You could have not purposely used the magical relic that was making you go bananas?’ If a 7 year old could make it through the apocalypse without magic then so could a fully grown man.)

(He left her to survive on her own in the name of being executive manager of hell and he still wonders why she wants nothing to do with him, why she used to have such a hard time so much as calling him “dad” when he’s never been anything like what she was lead to believe dads were supposed to be like.)

(She’s 1000 years old, how in the name of the nightosphere could she not be mature enough?)

(Over the years she’s replaced the world “hell” with “Nightosphere” the same way the being once referred to as “God,” back when even she was young, is now called by their proper name of Glob. The Nightosphere really is hell, so it fits.)

(Sometimes she takes the time to think about how she's the heir apparent to the actual, literal, real life hell, and how she's one of the oldest beings around these days, maybe the oldest to still really be sane, but still a messed up teen.)

(She doesn't know how old she was when she was turned; years and months and all that are hard to keep track of when the species that invented it is all but extinct. Is she old enough to drive? Probably. She does and can regardless, because screw the old ways. Old enough to drink, smoke, vote? Debatable. The point is that she’s 1000 years old but actually, like, 18. What the fuck.)

She drifts, both mentally and physically. She's had plenty of time and isolation to ponder the Big Things about life and the world and why and how things happened the way they did, and what it means. She will have an abundance of opportunities in the future to think about these things, too. Some day she'll reflect on this part of her life in the far away, nostalgia-filtered sepia tones she currently thinks of her childhood and adolescence. She'll remember when Finn and Jake were the heroes of Ooo, when Simon used to chase after princesses who will have long since passed, when she couldn't get over her ex-girlfriend who happened to be sentient candy. It will be distant and she will miss it terribly, the same way she misses her mother, and Simon when he was Simon, and fries in a long-abandoned diner. But it will be a wound long since closed and numbed, like the deep scar she got on her calf sometime in her early teens that still exists today, preserved in her immortality and a sentimentality that prevented her from insta-healing it away, sting and blood long gone.

She has forever to reminisce, but only right now to live in the present. She makes mental patterns in the bumps on the ceiling, and slowly loses grip on her body. She is a million miles upwards, where the sky holds no oxygen and the stars are still pinpricks in a sea of indigo construction paper. Like a kid poking holes in the top of a jar of lightning bugs, equipped with a fork and enthusiasm at being able to destroy something for the sake of encapturing something else. She is, at the same time, hovering above her uncomfortably hard couch. One of her hands slips from its place atop her bass, and Shwabl licks it from his spot next to her on the dusty carpet.

She doesn't hear the knock at the door. She is right there, but she is centuries back and in a different part of the continent entirely. She doesn't hear Bonnie getting increasingly agitated, trying and failing not to raise her voice at her through the door. She doesn't notice when Bonnie lets herself in regardless of Marceline’s lack of response, or when Shwabl jumps up to attention at the guest.

It's the “Marceline, what -” that breaks her dissociative spell. That tone of exasperation in that particular voice is a very familiar one, especially within the last decade. She comes to to find that there are fresh tears in the corner of one eye and the words to a song as old as her youth on her lips.

“Oh, hey Bombòn. How goes it girl?” Marceline has had a millennium to convince the world that she's chill and totally not a big mess, and it shows in the lilt to her voice that screams ‘I'm just chillin’’ and not ‘I've been dissociating and crying and probably singing for who-knows-how-long and I'm really messed up’. She still doesn't dare move from her spot, because moving around could still trigger what she's trying to wait out.

“It's been three weeks, Marcy. Three weeks, and all that heavy biz, and no one's heard from you since. Doesn't that seem even a little bit irresponsible to you? Didn't you think people would worry? Or even wonder ‘hey, what happened to that girl who saved all our butts and got revampified?’”

“Dude, I've just been chilling. You know how it is; jams, games, pets, it keeps a girl busy. It’s cool. Ice cold, in fact.”

Bonnie sighs. Marceline has heard that sigh a million and three times over by now, and she's learned to like that particular sound from the pink girl; it's the one thing about herself that she can't manage to sweeten to the point of oversaturation, until it (like the rest of her) is practically dripping sugar. Marceline likes to deal with the authentic rather than the idealized versions of people, because the latter rarely ever means anything good is coming her way.

(She rationalizes that the Ice King component of Simon, while not idealized, is not authentic in the least; the products of full humans getting mixed up with magic seldom are. The authentic Simon Petrikov is the one who found a 6 year old girl in the ruins of a suburban New Mexico town and still had enough selflessness in the aftermath of the apocalypse to comfort her and take care of her.)

The sigh doesn't lead to the reprimanding the vampire expects. Instead, she watches as Bonnie leans down in her peripheral vision to pet Shwabl, expression focused intently on the dog. She's doing that same schooled neutrality shit she used to do during those globawful trade meetings - the ones Marcy used to steal her away from the go gallivanting through the rock candy mines.

“What kind of sweet tunes have you whipped up, then? Lay it on me girl.”

Marceline lets her face adopt a smirk - the expression has become a reflexive habit after centuries of being a bitter undead loner - even as something in her stomach drops. Bonnie rarely asks about her music because she knows so much of it is personal, and that which isn't is vulgar or morbid and prone to being shared regardless, not to mention the fact that Bonnie’s interests definitely don't lie in the arts, or punk rock music, or most of the uglier parts of Marceline.

“You know my latest album is the epitome of personal mush, Bons. It's so personal I'd have to kill you if you heard any of it. But, I do have a new demo about a fisherman.”

Bonnibel definitely wants something out of her; she has that smile she reserves for Cinnamon Bun and Finn when he's going on about dumb 13 year old boy things, the one that's polite and reservedly encouraging, the one that Marcy has always found to be condescending although it always looks as sweet as its wearer who is literally made out of candy, almost as sweet as the girl’s public persona.

The thing about being 1000 years old and also a teenage girl is that you spend forever being a socially-minded person on some level or another, because back in the day that's how girls were socialized to be - social-driven creatures who cared more about what Allyson wore on Tuesday or what Theresa said about Serena in math class than anything practical. So Marceline has had a long time to notice the tells and ticks of the select few she surrounds herself with often enough to care about. PB smiles like her kindergarten teacher used to on particularly trying days when she thinks the people she's with are idiots but can't call them out for it. Her eyebrows droop when she's so tired that sheer willpower will no longer keep them up. She plays with her hands when she's nervous. She used to chew on her hair when she was younger and in the process of creating her kingdom, when stress was a new feeling she hadn't yet made a feedback loop out of.

This is totally, completely because of the sexist socialization of the old world, and nothing else. Totally not because they dated for a good chunk of time, or because one or the other might, maybe be having rose-coloured thoughts about the other again.

“Everyone and their granny has heard that one, Marcy. If you've had all this time to do nothing but groove and game then I wanna hear some tunes! Don't be a butt about it.” She's trying to gode the older girl, but Marceline is itching to get out of this particular conversation. Somewhere in her cursed, mostly re-dried blood she knows this is a test.

“I don't bust into your lab and start interrogating you about your experiments - can you just lay off, man?” she says it more harshly than she had meant to, but being yanked back to reality and immediately questioned over every move will do that to a person. “Tell me what's been going on in Candyland. You finally get all the earwax off of your junk?”

“You know if you did ask about my science experiments I would be happy to tell you all about them - well, the ones that aren't classified. It's called caring, Marce, it's a thing that friends do.”

A tense silence follows as Marceline thinks of something biting (but not petty!) to throw back at her.

“And yeah, actually, I did. The dingus left a huge mess but there's nothing my purple cleaner can't get rid of.”

Bonnie can't leave a single box unticked, can she?

“Glob, that stuff is nasty. The fumes make me gag, and I don't even need to breathe!”

The princess raises a brow at her. The queen furrows both of hers in frustration and fixes her gaze back on the bumps on the ceiling. When she was younger she used to make images out of the dips and dots in the kindergarten room ceiling; the RV’s was smoothed and didn't allow that particular part of her imagination to play around.

“And I think the expression you're looking for is sharing is caring, Bubs. It's a thing they used to say waaaaaaaay back in the day whenever the old people got tired of little kids fighting over toys.”

*******

this was gonna be a longfic feat. mutual pining by our fave disaster gays and more references to marcy’s life pre- and during the apocalypse bc i have a lot of feelings about Stakes. might come back to it, who knows!!!

[archadianskies]

“That was a workout.” Allen900 pls 👀

[Ch1 & Ch2; warning: explicit sexual content below]

→ on Ao3

Sleep is considered an indulgence for him, and even then he doesn’t tend to indulge any more than two hours at most. He is built to run for at least a week with minimal recharging, but it was his own brother who taught him that sometimes it’s pleasant to just lie down and tune out the rest of the world for a little while. 

So he lies down, tuning out the world, and the body curved against his is warm and pliant and oh so alive in a way he isn’t. 

Captain Allen’s phone shows there will be an alarm at 6:00am, and then another at 6:30am, followed by one at 7:00am and finishing with one at 7:30am. That means the man averages seven hours of sleep and rises early (6:00am) for a morning run (6:30am), and a yoga session (7:00am) before leaving for work (7:30am). He is a disciplined, orderly man which is reflected in both his conduct at work and here in his home life. Caleb likes that about him. 

Without a mission furrowing his brow, David looks younger in his sleep, hair tousled instead of slicked back and expression lax instead of hardened with intense concentration. Carefully Caleb reaches out to smooth a few unruly locks away from his face, and his eyes pick up a few glints of silver threaded through the strands. 

There’s something boyishly charming about him, something a little old fashioned in the way he treats Caleb, like a gentleman from a bygone era. Caleb likes that about him too.

When the human’s vitals reflect a deep REM cycle, the android quietly eases out of bed and retraces his steps to the front door, collecting their hastily discarded clothes along the way. He folds them neatly, placing them on the end of the bed ready for the morning. 

The apartment is large and airy, decorated in sleek, dark, masculine decor. It is aesthetically pleasing but shows little life, unlike the way Lieutenant Anderson’s home seems lived in, worn in a way this isn’t. It tells him Captain Allen is rarely home long enough to make the space feel occupied. 

The fridge and pantry are well stocked, and there are cooking utensils in the dish rack. Meals are stacked in containers labelled neatly with days of the week, ordered left to right in the fridge. A self-sufficient man, reliant on no one but himself. 

Caleb takes his time exploring the apartment, careful to keep noise at a minimum in order not to disturb the human slumbering in the bedroom. He lies down on the couch and connects to the obsolete MP3 player sitting in the dock, downloading the songs so he can listen to them. It passes the time in an enjoyable way, allowing more insight into the man’s tastes. At four in the morning, Connor requests to communicate with him, and he opens a channel for his brother.

[What are you doing now?]

‘I am making my way through Captain Allen’s music collection.’

[Does he have records like Hank?]

‘No but he has an obsolete MP3 player filled with songs from the mid 2000s to the late 2010s.’

[Will you stay over at his apartment often? Do you think it will lead to cohabitation?]

‘Perhaps.’ Caleb mulls on the thought, letting it turn in his mind and worm its way deep. ‘I am not sure. This is the first time we have been intimate. I am not sure what he wants to do next.’

[Curious.] Connor hums thoughtfully. [I have no such inclinations towards romantic or sexual relations.]

‘You take after our father that way.’ Caleb points out, and he thinks he can feel Connor’s smile even without seeing it. 

He slides back beneath the covers after disconnecting from his brother’s conversation. David shifts a little at the movement, and Caleb eases him into his arms. Androids are not warm like this, soft like this. Human bodies have a certain give to them, since they are muscle and fat and sinew and skin layered over a skeleton frame. 

He breathes him in, nose in his hair, able to analyze the chemical components of the shampoo he used in the shower earlier, and the natural oils of his scalp. His heartbeat is steady, his breathing relaxed and Caleb uses those sounds, the steady tempo, to lull him to sleep as he slowly shuts off his processes one by one, easing into stasis.

*~*

At 5:53, a full seven minutes before the first alarm, he feels David begin to stir awake. It’s a quickening of his heartbeat, a deeper inhale and exhale, a slight twitch in his fingertips and toes as his body prepares for more movement. He’s not quite conscious yet but he wriggles a little, as if chasing more warmth, more contact. 

Caleb presses his lips to his bare shoulder, tongue darting out to taste his skin. David huffs, squirming away from his mouth and yet tightening his arms around him. There’s arousal present in his sweat, and Caleb can feel his already half hard cock thickening between them. He kisses the juncture where his jaw meets his ear, closing his lips over the jutt of his bone and sucking mildly. David groans hands clumsily pushing at his shoulders.

“Jesus Christ Caleb it’s barely six.” His voice is an octave deeper, scratchy with sleep still and Caleb commits it to memory as his nips along his jawline, tongue laving over the stubble dotted there. Tilting his head slightly, Caleb licks up along the column of his throat before pressing their lips together briefly. The early dawn light peeks through the slats, throwing warm yellows across them, catching in David’s green eyes when he finally opens them to regard him with exasperation. 

“And you’re already hard.” Caleb teases, snaking a hand between them to palm his stiffening cock. David rolls his eyes, gritting his teeth as he gives him a squeeze. 

“God you’re impossible.” He grumbles, rutting into his hand for more friction. It takes him four tries to open his inseam, limbs still heavy with sleep and dexterity still lacking as he gropes for his cock. “Fuck I’m not awake enough for this.”

“Parts of you are.” He quips, stealing another kiss as David coaxes him to hardness. The alarm goes off, heralding six in the morning and Caleb reaches out to swipe the off option and silence it. Thirty minutes until the scheduled morning run; plenty of time. Rolling over, he tugs David to curve against his back, pressing the cleft of his ass insistently against his cock. He’s already wet, his thighs slick with lubricant. “Please?”

“Only because you asked so nicely.” David nips the tip of his ear, voice still rough like gravel as he pushes inside him. Caleb arches in pleasure, mouth open in a silent cry as his body squeezes around the intrusion. He lets out a shaky sigh as David slides his hand up his abdomen, fingers rubbing over one nipple and pinching it just a little too hard. 

They fuck and it’s a heady, lazy affair as they chase their pleasure. There isn’t any of last night’s urgency, no trace of that animalistic desperation. It’s a slow, simmering heat coiling in his system and he keens as David hooks his hand behind his knee, lifting his leg up so he can fuck into him harder, deeper, with the new angle. Teeth clamp into his shoulder as he bites him to muffle himself, and Caleb whines needily, reaching for his own cock. David growls, smacking his hand away.

“No, you started this, you don’t get to come first.” A gutteral rasp right into his ear and Caleb nearly mewls in protest, rutting against the sheets for any sort of friction.

“Please-!”

“Hands where I can see ‘em.” His captain commands, and Caleb grips the pillow instead. “Good.” It takes a little longer this time, because he’s still clouded with sleep but it’s no less sweet, no less exhilarating when Caleb feels him shudder, cock twitching inside him as he reaches release. 

Reaching around, he finally, blessedly squeezes his neglected member and jerks him off in quick, sharp tugs. His thumb lingers on the head, and when he teases his slit with the tip of his nail Caleb arches like a taut bow and comes hard into his hand with a strained cry. 

>System in cooldown

>>Minimise exertion

>>Seek fluid intake

Grinning to himself, he swats the notifications away and rolls back over to kiss his lover languidly. David’s hair is tousled, sweat dotting his brow as his chest heaves for breath. He’s looking at him with a mixture of irritation and fondness, and the sight alone makes Caleb kiss him again, soft and sweet.

“Well. That was a workout.” David bumps their brows together. “I don’t think I’m going for that morning run now.”

“I’ll change the beddings after we shower?” Caleb offers by means of an apology though he isn’t really sorry at all. “And I’ll get coffee from down the road while you do yoga?”

“Deal.” He sighs, acting put upon though the smile betrays his tone completely. One more kiss before they finally get out of bed. Suddenly David’s phone vibrates insistently on the bedside table just as Caleb receives an inbound call.

“Allen.” He answers curtly as Caleb presses two fingers to his LED.

“RK900, receiving.”

A mission. They scramble for their clothes, forgoing the shower in favour of wiping themselves down with a damp hand towel. The mellow mood vanishes in an instant, replaced with something grim. Caleb watches David withdraw into himself, step behind the veneer of the man who leads SWAT Unit 32. There he is: Captain Allen, ready to command.

“Alright rookie, let’s go.”

“Yessir.” He follows him obediently to the door and the man pauses, reaching to tweak the collar of Caleb’s jacket and for a moment he glimpses him again; David offers a brief, affectionate little smile and Caleb leans down swiftly to kiss it before it vanishes. 

Onward.

[ask-de-writer]

HONOR vs ORDERS : MLP Fan Fiction : Age restricted 18+

HONOR vs ORDERS

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

Commissioned and idea provided by

EDB COMMAND

8813 words

© 2019 by Glen Ten-Eyck

All rights reserved.  This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

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Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact.  They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions.  Those who do commission art works may charge for their images provided that I receive a copy of each image for my archive.  All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fictions is actively encouraged.

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This tale is age restricted to 18+

Trigger warnings: Military combat violence, Sex

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Master Sargent Iron Hooves surveyed the entrance to Shattered Claw Pass through his binoculars.  Shaking his head at the mass of boulders and the steep, narrow, rocky sides of the pass, he muttered loudly enough to be overheard, “The Brass are nuts!  They really expect the Army to get through there in one piece?”

Sargent Haze pointed out, “At least the boulders and brush will allow us to do an advance from cover to cover.  What really bothers me is the Princesses sending us in to help the Empress in this Civil War.  It ought to be the Gryphon's business, not ours.”

Remembering some of the slaves that they had freed as the Combined Army took Rebel strongholds, Iron replied grimly, “If I had not seen how these Rebels treat their slaves, I would agree with you, Haze.  Thing is, I have seen it.  We are on the right side of this mess.

“There goes the Spearhead into the pass.  We need to move up!”

Turning to his squad, a mix of ponies and Gryphons, he called out, “Iron's Claws!  Advance under cover!  Front rank, pick your cover and advance as soon as our cover fire is established!  You know the drill!”

READ MORE

The rest of the unit providing cover fire to keep enemy heads down, the front rank scooted forward.  Iron was proud of the Gryphons in his mixed unit.  They hated ground combat but given proper orders, did it well.  They did it even better once they realized how effective it was at forcing the Fliers back.

The second rank, now dodging their way through the broken terrain, were being covered by the rear and first as they leapfrogged past the first rank and took their safe positions.  The first and second now providing cover, Iron tapped Haze on the shoulder.

“Our turn!”  louder, he called, “Third rank, advance!” Joining their force, the Master Sargent and Sargent worked their way through the rattle and smoke of small arms fire, up past the rest to take the lead positions.  Like a well oiled machine, the first rank, now at the rear, advanced through the other two ranks to take the lead.  Then the second leapfrogged and it was the turn of the third again.

The rebel fire trying to stop them was not well coordinated.  The Rebel contempt of ground action blinded them to its true effectiveness.  The cover fire of Iron's Claws was not only keeping their heads down, it was taking out those who got too enthusiastic or tried to take to the air!

Iron's Claws was well inside Shattered Claw pass when the Rebel ambush opened fire.  The deafening roar of the Rebel MT81 quick fire cannons filled the pass!  

Without awaiting orders, Iron's Claws scrambled, not to retreat, but to better cover from the heavier fire from higher up!   Sargent Haze was scanning the canyon walls with binoculars.  He tapped Master Sargent Iron on the shoulder and pointed.  Iron got it at once.  The MT81 nests were revealing themselves by the smoke and flame of their weapons.

“They are in range of our rifles!  At least most of them are!”  

Iron bellowed, “Iron's Claws!  Hit those nests with everything that we have!”

Gryphons and Ponies aimed high and began to fire up the walls at the MT81s that were cutting off the Spearhead.  Their return fire reduced the effectiveness of the Rebel fire some.

Seeing the results, Iron sent a messenger around to his pinned down troops.  Half kept up the semi random fire upward.  The other half waited in silence.  When the next nest opened up, they all took close aim and blasted a solid volley of fire at it.

They had the pleasure, for a combat situation, of seeing two Rebel Gryphons tumble from their position!  The weapon itself was pushed into view as they fell.  In seconds, that MT81 was hit by multiple bullets and destroyed.

The volley shooters went silent again, waiting for the next target!

They did not have long to wait.  As they opened up, a grinning Haze observed, “They have to keep shooting or the Spearhead will get out of the trap!  When they shoot, so do we!  They can't really divide their attack, they haven't got enough good nest positions!”

Iron had his brow furrowed in deep thought.  “How in heck did they get those guns up there, Haze?  MT81s are too heavy to be flight portable!”

While Haze was pondering that, private Glida, one of their Gryphons, tapped Iron's shoulder and pointed.  In heavily accented Equestrian, he pointed up and said, “That is strange.  The usual flight Talon is four.  Why are there six in that one?”

Iron's binoculars provided the answer in only moments.  Each  of the six was carrying something fairly heavy.  The one in the lead had a spindly object.  He hit a ledge, planting his part.  The next had a longish boxy thing.  He hit the ledge and the two worked for a moment, attaching the receiver to the tripod base.  He flew out of the way of the next, with a long object.  It proved to be the barrel of the MT81 being assembled as Iron watched.

His tight grin as he figured out how the Rebels were getting around the MT81 weight issue was frightful to behold.  He whispered to private Glida, who carried his new orders to the volley fire group.

As the last of the Rebel group was approaching with an ammunition box to complete the weapon and put it into action,  he had to spread his wings and brake.  The volley ripped into him, dropping him and the ammunition the weapon needed to be operational, down into the floor of the pass!

The volley group then concentrated their fire on the nearly complete weapon.  It took only a few hits to put it out of action entirely.

Haze had a grin of his own, now.  “We got it!  Now that we know how to take them, we can fix this mess!”

Iron's sharpshooters were in the process of tearing up the third MT81 nest when a gryphon in the uniform of the Imperial Army Messenger Corps flew up, staying low and zigging to present a difficult target. He landed hard, raising dust and small clods of dirt with his talons.  Saluting Master Sargent Iron, he reported, “Sir, it is the order of the High Command of the Combined Army that you retreat at once.  The presence of the MT81s have made it impossible to achieve our objective.”

Iron nodded sourly as he watched the Rebel carrying a new weapon receiver, a vital component, tumble from the air!  The receiver, the heart of the weapon smashed on to rocks below.

“What of our spearhead?”

The messenger shook his head, laying his crest flat in distaste.  “We must sacrifice them.  It is necessary to save as much of the whole army as possible.”

“I see.  We have just learned how the Rebels are getting the MT81s up there.  We have now neutralized three of the nests entirely, their weapons destroyed.  I will notify my troops.”  Iron let out a long and disgusted sigh.

The messenger left to carry his distasteful order to the remaining front line units.

Sargent Haze shook his head, lips curled in disgust.  “We have to retreat and just leave over a hundred troops?  Sickening.”

Master Sargent Iron Hooves surveyed the situation.  “That is not what I told the messenger, Haze.  I said that I would notify my troops.  If they are willing, I will lead them in to see if we can rescue the Spearhead.”

“That is a mutiny, Master Sargent.  Count me in!”  Haze actually smiled for the first time in a while.

When Glida returned from his round of the troops, he saluted, reporting, “We have the entire unit ready to advance, Sir.  None of us wants to abandon troops to slavers like these.”

“Thank you, private Glida.”  Iron's voice bellowed out over the din of the battle, “Iron's Claws!  Advance under cover!  Lead unit! Provide  ground cover fire!  Second Unit!  Watch for nests or guns on the move and neutralize!”

Iron's Claws began to rake their way deeper into Shattered Claw Pass.

The Rebels were trying, too late, to set up a solid ground defense. The trapped spearhead was too dangerous to fly over in the attempt to get at the new foe, striking from the rear.  Iron watched as gryphons attempting to place themselves between the forces, fell from the air. Some were getting through.  While involved in a leapfrog, Iron felt his foreleg driven out from under him.  He hit the ground hard. Glancing at the leg, he realized that the bone was not hit.

Struggling up, he limped to cover.  Haze was on him in an instant. Ripping away uniform, he examined the wound and pronounced, “Flesh wound, Sir.  Gonna slow you a bit.  Once I get this wrapped, you can go on.”  The wound bandaged, Iron and Haze rejoined the advance.

The enemy was keeping Haze busy binding up wounds.  Too busy.  Iron called a halt.  His war bellow instructed, “Concentrate fire on the first three of any MT under transport!  Watch for and neutralize as many ground troops as you can!  As bad as the MT81s are, we are taking more hits from the ground troops.”

The scent of powder smoke was contaminated by the stench of blood and spilled guts.  Haze was back in a few moments.  “Got us as patched up as I can, Sir.  We have not lost a single trooper yet.  We did a lot of bad damage to some of the Rebels, though.  I patched up any that looked to survive.  I remembered what you said in mission briefing.”

Iron nodded, adding, “When the Rebels figure out that the ground is where the war is going to be decided, it will get really messy.”

Soon, Iron's Claws reached the nearest of the spearhead troops!  An MT81 tried to spoil the celebration.  Iron did not even have time to order return fire before his troops were on it.  The wounded gunner fell fluttering to the bottom of the pass.

In the lull that followed, the major leading the spearhead approached.  He politely raised his crest in greeting as he said, “I am Major Graak.  I do not wish to seem ungrateful, Master Sargent, but wasn't there an order to retreat?”

Master Sargent Iron Hooves nodded seriously, “Indeed there is a retreat order, Sir.  Shall we comply with it and get you all out of here?”

The Major's crest flipped up as he fluttered his wings in gryphon amusement.  He replied, “Sir, that appears to be the best idea of the century!  You seem to understand how this ground action works better than I.  Will you lead us?”

“Yes, Sir.  We are using an advance in force, under cover.  It is a leapfrog type of advance.  Your remaining force is small enough to make it work.   We need to divide the whole force into three parts. The lead and second ranks provide cover fire for the rear to pass through them and find forward cover.  They become the lead.  They and the old first rank are then the new first and second ranks.  They then provide the cover fire while the rear passes through and becomes the first.

“That is it in a nutshell.  The details are a pain but we can do it.”

The retreat was interrupted by several attempts by the Rebels to plant new MT81 nests.  The concentrated fire of the combined unit left shattered weapons and broken bodies behind.   Their retreat was delayed.

“Master Sargent!  What is the meaning of this?  That is a Rebel trooper that your Sargent is wasting our bandages on!”

“If you look, Sir, we have been recovering all of the wounded that we encounter. It is the standing order of our Princesses that the enemy fallen be treated the same as our own.”

Haze went to retrieve another of the fallen, entrapped in a bush.  He was cutting away the branches in the way when a shot rang out. Sargent Haze fell back, bleeding.  Before Iron could stop him, the Major ordered, “Shoot!”  

A dozen of his troops riddled the wounded Rebel with bullets.  Haze rolled to his hooves, bleeding from a shoulder.  He stalked up to the Major and spat in his face.  “That was not necessary, SIR!”

Shocked, the Major turned and found Iron laying on the ground, bleeding from his right hind leg.  Haze, kneeling to check his Master Sargent's wound, snarled, “Major, this was the result of your idiocy!  Before you order troops to shoot, be sure that they are not shooting in our direction!”

Iron interrupted Haze's tirade, “How bad is it, Sargent?”

Haze was probing the wound.  “Bullet is still in here.  There, got it!”  He disdainfully dropped the bloody lump of lead at the feet of Major.  Returning to his task, he bound up the wound.  “Not too bad, really, Sir.  Might get a bit of a scar from it.  You've lost more blood than is really good.  Otherwise you are fine.”

Iron got to his hooves and shuddered all over.  “Thank you again, Haze.  You are a good medic.  Now let me see to YOUR shoulder!”

Haze bandaged, the troops began to advance again.  The Major, smarting from both his mishandling of the fallen enemy and Sargent Haze's rebuke, said, “Master Sargent, we have not engaged any enemy for some time.  We can make better time marching in formation!”

Iron, limping as he headed for his next cover replied, “Correct, Major.  You were making great time, there in the pass!”

It was just then that Haze reported, “Sir, I can see the end of the pass!  We have a problem.  They have sneaked at least fifty ground troops into the boulder field.”

The Major suggested, “I was not properly trained in this sort of ground operation.  We do outnumber them.  I do not wish to make any more mistakes.  How should we use our superiority?”

Iron regarded the Major with far greater respect.  “I understand how difficult that must have been to say, Major.  We will split our force before they can properly see us.  One group will advance from cover to cover straight onto them.  That advance is a feint in force. We will be drawing their attention and fire.

“The second group will swing to the far right, advancing from cover to cover but doing no suppression fire.  Our job is simply to keep the enemy engaged until the second unit is in position to take them from the right rear.  The enemy will then be caught between our forces.”

Nodding understanding, the Major took the frontal attack force. Iron's Claws, together with a good many of the rescued spearhead, began the sneak off to the right.

The Major's troops opened fire from their present cover while a rank leapfrogged to new forward cover.  The heavy return fire from the Rebels showed that he did have their attention!

Maintaining silence, Iron's Claws slipped from cover to cover.  Haze tapped Iron's shoulder.  “I owe the Major an apology.  He is handling that advance really well.'

Iron nodded as they sprinted for the next cover.  “It was inexperience, not incompetence.  He is a fast learner.  He is doing a great job at keeping his temper, too.”

Reaching their objective, Iron's Claws could peer around the boulders of their cover, keeping low.  Over half of the enemy force was in plain view from their position.  Iron tapped Glida and sent him around to his command with their orders.

They opened up on the exposed enemy, firing aimed shots with deadly accuracy.

Rebels tried futilely to take cover from the new attack, only to expose themselves to the Major's fire.

In only moments Iron's Claws were advancing on the trapped and decimated Rebels.  It was a short and bloody engagement.

During the mop up after the battle, Haze got his chance to lay his rifle at the claws of the Major.  “Sir, I apologize for my outburst.  You are a truly good officer and handled this with professionalism.  I have never seen an officer learn an unfamiliar mode of combat as swiftly as you just have.”

The Major looked down at Haze and replied, “If it helps, you and yours risked all to save us.  Your Master Sargent being struck by our friendly fire must have been hard.  You are forgiven.  It is an honor to have such troops as you.”

Iron turned over yet another of the enemy fallen.  The gory exit hole, no longer bleeding told the tale.  Another one who would never see home.  Iron was staggering just a bit.  He recalled Haze's comment about blood loss and chuckled.  “Blood or no blood, the job is not done!  I'll collapse later!”

At the rustling in some brush, between several boulders, Iron turned, aiming his pistol.  Seeing that the injured enemy trapped there was unarmed, he put away the gun and said, “Relax, there fellow.  We will get you out to medical help as soon as we can.”

The enemy soldier stilled.  As Haze approached with the medical field kit, Iron began breaking away branches and wrenching them out of the way.  He told the Rebel, “Almost there.  We can get you patched and on the way to the hospital in a few moments.”

While his hooves were occupied, Iron caught a glimpse of a talon striking out from the brush!  He felt a searing pain in the right side of his face!  The drag of claws raking and chattering over bone! Flesh tearing across his eye!

Shock, long delayed, hit.  Seeing clearly with only his left eye, he felt his legs going rubbery.  With no sensation of falling, he felt the ground as he hit.  Fading hearing caught the sound of a shot.  

He thought that he heard, “We have one down!  Get the stretcher!” He was briefly wondering who it was for.  Then darkness took him.

~~ ~~ ~~

The view from the window was spectacular, as were all of the out facing windows of Canterlot Castle.  The room inside was spare, compared to most.  There were few hangings and no fancy lanterns or sconces.  The room was dominated by two large tables.  The bigger one had a large map of the Gryphon Empire on it.  Placed about on the map were red and yellow markers of different shapes, some bearing tags with numbers or other vital information about the unit the marker represented.

A unicorn General was using a long wand with a hook to move some markers out of Shattered Claw Pass.  He snarled, “I ORDERED them to retreat!  We need to make an example of him!  Break his rank and throw him out of the military entirely!”

Princess Luna tilted her head curiously from her place at the other table.  She waited until the General was done with his marker movement.  “Come here, General Horshet.  I have some questions about this situation.  If it helps, I do think that we need to make an example of this disobedient Master Sargent.”  She had a hoof on the open file before her.

The General returned to his place at the War Table.  In his anger at the mutiny that he had just finished detailing on the Map table, forgetting to dip his horn to the Princess, he demanded, “What do you have in mind, your Highness?”

Princess Luna gave him a stare that would have flash frozen a Polar Bear.  In a soft voice, she replied, “I was thinking of following the lead of the Empress.  She has just awarded Master Sargent Iron Hooves the Claw of Honor, one of the three highest awards of the Empire.  

“As a result of his INITIATIVE, seventy three injured were recovered and are now either back in action or in the hospital.  Over one third were soldiers of the Rebels.”

General Horshet interrupted, “That alone is enough to justify cashiering  him!  Wasting our resources on the enemy is treason!”

Luna slammed down her hoof in irritation!  “They are LIVES, General!  The whole purpose of the war is to preserve both freedom and as many lives as possible!  Glorious Victory is nowhere on the list!  Neither is your ego!”

Celestia laid a calming hoof on her sister's shoulder.  “Luna, dear, you are correct.  Skyglow, the Titan of Life Creation, who created us, did so to save all of the lives on this world.  Nothing is more important than living beings of wisdom.  What did you have in mind?”

Luna took a deep breath and steadied herself, anger put aside for the moment.  “I was going to award him the Luna's Crescent of Mercy for his heroism in saving enemy fallen, even though he was severely injured in the deed.”

Princess Celestia smiled, “Most fitting.

“General, I have a few questions for you, too.  What was the source of our new intelligence on the Rebel redesign of the MT81 to make it flight portable?”

General Horshet squirmed under her serene seeming gaze.  “Some of the troops spotted the way that the weapons were being transported.”

Celestia froze like a glacier.  “I saw that you altered the field reports to remove Master Sargent Iron Hooves from the observation. It took binocular study to verify what the gryphon private Glida noticed.  The private brought the unusual flight pattern to the Master Sargent's attention.  ONLY the Sargents had the binoculars to verify that the flight pattern was transporting a disassembled MT81.

“That observation made it reasonable for Iron's Claws, only twenty five troops, to risk an advance against potentially murderous fire from the Rebels.  They were able to put over a dozen of the flight portable MT81s out of action.  They linked up with and saved the surviving troops of the Spearhead.

“Major Graak credits the survival of over half of his Spearhead command solely to the actions of Master Sargent Iron Hooves.  Over a hundred lives that YOU abandoned, most of them Gryphon Empire troops. ALL of the combined force, including the Major have proposed Master Sargent Iron Hooves for decoration.

The Major also credits Master Sargent Iron Hooves with revealing a dangerous weakness in Empire military training.  The Empress has asked that he be allowed to advise the training of her troops in ground combat.

“In your embarrassment over being shown to have been spectacularly WRONG both in the campaign plan AND in the retreat order, you have been seeking to punish the Master Sargent.  I would far rather punish YOU!”

General Horshet swallowed hard.

Luna interposed, “All true, Sister.  Still, this is the first serious misstep of this General's career.  Let us note it in the record and keep his otherwise good service to Our Crowns.  What would you do about Master Sargent Iron Hooves?”

Celestia nodded.  “True enough, Sister.  Because there truly WAS a direct violation of orders, no matter how well it has worked in our favor, I will withhold the Celestia's Medal of Courage.”

General Horshet smiled tightly but held his peace.

Celestia went on, “I will grant him a special citation for heroism, along with a benefice of gold and award him the Solar Heart for his injuries suffered in our service.”

General Horshet's tight smile became forced.

The Princesses of the Realm bowed politely and left General Horshet to his work of planning the next assault on the Rebel positions.

~~ ~~ ~~

Iron woke, head muzzy.  Trying to move was met the sort of resistance that only restraints convey.  He heard voices outside of a door that he could not see well.

He shook his head attempting to clear it.  His vision focused some, but things did not look right.  Nor did the place he was in.  It was like no hospital of his experience.

The voices outside crystallized.  They were speaking Gryphon.  “Why should I be lead nurse?  Simple.  I speak better Equestrian than any of you.  Don't worry about being left out of the nursing team for this hero.  You are all very good and will be needed!

“He is stirring!  We need to be very careful.  He has had to be restrained.  Even unconscious, he was trying to carry on the battle and save our troops.”

Three Gryphon nurses entered wearing their yellow nurses caps that had a wide slot to allow their crests the freedom to express so much of their feelings.

One was somewhat larger than the others.  She was also a truly stunning example of Gryphon femininity.  She spoke in clear but gryphon accented Equestrian.  “Hello, Master Sargent Iron Hooves. I expect that you are wondering where you are and what has happened. Do you want me to fill you in?”

Iron found that his throat was a bit sore as he spoke, “Please do, nurse.  I expect that since you and the others are nurses, that I am in a hospital.”

“That is correct.  You are in the Imperial Eyrie of Healing, number three.  You have suffered both wounds and blood loss, along with what we call battle shock.  It was a major effort to restrain you for the surgery.  We have saved your right eye but it was touch and go.  The talon rake fortunately missed the visual parts of your eye.

“I fear that you will carry severe facial scarring near and across your right eye and ear but your vision should be unimpaired.  The gunshot wounds were purely routine but caused much blood loss.”

Iron thought over the news for only a moment before asking what was most important to him.  “What of my troops?  My ponies and catbirds?  What about the Major and his troops?”  As he asked, he was making an effort to reach the side of the ~ ~ NEST? ~~!  Oh, right.  Gryphon hospital.

The lead nurse's crest rose in a smile.  “They are safe.  YOU were the last one to be wounded in the rescue.  Major Graak credits you, not only with the rescue of more than half of his spearhead force, he says that you and your troops showed us a vital weakness in our military training and tactics.  You are a hero to your troops and, I may add, to the entire EMPIRE!”

Iron looked up at the lovely nurse and shook all over.  “A hero?  I just did what needed doing.  We had troops that we could save.  It was no fault of the Brass that they ordered a retreat.  They did not know the weakness in the MT81 . . .”

The nurse put a claw gently over his lips.  “You had better intelligence of the situation than the Brass.  Best not to say what it was, just now.”

Iron subsided.  “I get it.  Sorry.”

“Don't be.  You are just post surgical and low on blood.  We were able to address all of your problems but that last one.  You are now, and will be for some weeks to come, unfit for combat due to the rebuilding of your blood supply.  It is the best that we can do.”

“I do see.  Well sort of.  My right eye appears to be under a dressing.  That makes seeing harder!”  They both giggled.

The other nurses of the team set to work, checking Iron out thoroughly.  They compared what they found to a chart, converting measurements from those for a gryphon to what a pony should have and then entering the results into a folder.

While they were doing their work, Iron's open eye was working too. He was frankly ogling the head nurse!  He was intrigued by her eyes, unusual for a Gryphon, or pretty much any other kind in Iron's experience.  They were red and her irises were not equal in size. Somehow, that apparent imperfection made her even lovelier.

The other nurses left to carry out whatever duties were required. Iron impulsively took the lead nurse's foreclaw and said playfully, “As a nurse for a bedridden patient, you are only partly succeeding.  Some of me is getting up!”

She gave a throaty chuckle and reached delicately for his indelicate parts.  “It seems that you can't keep a good Sargent down!”  Her crest rose sharply.  Her eyes opened wider and her pupils dilated in fascination.

She quietly told him, “My name is Graysa.  It means . . .”

Iron interrupted, speaking quietly too, “Wise Gryphoness.  Sort of like a healer or what we in Equestria call a hedge witch.  It is a lovely name for a beautiful gryphon.”

Her crest rose in a happy looking smile.  Her foreclaw began working Iron's member rhythmically.

He was amazed that the same kind of talon that had ripped him so badly could be so gentle and arousing.  She was watching him, crest rippling in amusement while his tension built and built.  His release felt astounding.

Before he could say anything, Graysa said, “Consider it a down payment.  It is too soon after surgery for more active pleasures.   I have some work to do, preparing medication for you.  I will return soon.”

Almost puzzled, Iron asked, “Don't you have other patients to tend?”

She turned in the door and said, “Orders of the Empress.  We are to have a nurse with you as much as possible.”

As promised, Nurse Graysa returned shortly.  Her crest showing a jaunty grin, she poured some liquid into a spoon and pointed it “threateningly” at his mouth.  “I do know how bad it tastes. Unfortunately for you, you actually do need this.”

Iron obediently opened his mouth.  Graysa was right!  It was awful.

The gryphon hospital nest was a bit roomier than a bed stall in an Equestrian horsepital.  Graysa sat on the nest side and produced newspapers.  She began to read to him.  Their accounts of the Battle of Shattered Claw were lurid to say the least!  

Iron was giggling at one in particular.  It had the Valiant Iron's Claws 25 charging through a murderous hail of shells from the Rebel's deadly MT81 quick fire cannons!  Chortling, he commented, “They sure painted that one with a broad brush!  Wrong colors, too!”

When Graysa's cheerful giggling was done, she said, “I am filling time for a reason.  The Empress was notified that you are alert.  She is coming to see you.”

Iron sobered at once.  “Why?  Sure, I guess that we were news.  We just did our duty as we saw it.  The whole unit voted to try for the rescue.

“I am curious though, about why the papers are so wrong about how the battle went.”

A new voice, from the room's door answered, “That was my order.  I detest censorship but keeping secret what you and your troops discovered about the weakness in how the Rebels are transporting the MT81 parts will save many lives in the near future.”

Graysa had gone to her crouch of respect.  “Your Highness.  You are earlier than I expected.”

The Empress wore no fancy jewels.  The guards with her were in very functional battle armor and heavily armed.  They had clearly been briefed because they held back and let the Empress of the Gryphon Empire approach the nest.

To Iron's embarrassment, she gave him, a mere Master Sargent, a crouch of respect.  Rising, she said, “I have not come with empty claws.  Your heroic and successful effort to save over a hundred of my troops came at a severe cost to you.  I hope that this can make up in some small measure for the injury that you got in My service.”

She produced a flat case of fine woodwork.  Speaking to Graysa, the Empress requested, “Can we raise his head enough to place the ribbons about his neck?”

Graysa replied, as she put strong but gentle claws behind Iron's head and lifted, “We can, your Highness.  He does tire quickly just now. The loss of so much blood does that.”

“I shall be mindful of his present weakness.”

The Empress opened the case.  Inside was a medallion of white gold, enameled with red.  Embedded in the red, jewel like finish of the enamel was a yellow gold claw.  She lifted it from the case and placed the ribbon over Iron's head and settled the medallion on the center of his chest.

“This, Master Sargent Iron Hooves, is the Claw of Honor.  It is among our three highest battle decorations.  I am not yet done.”

She produced another flat case, similar to the first but a blue so dark as to be almost black.  It had the silver crescent moon of Princess Luna set into the wood.  The Empress removed the large white gold medallion and set the dark blue ribbon about Iron's neck.  That medallion lay alongside the Claw of Honor.

“Your own Princess Luna, for your gallantry in rescuing all of the wounded that you could, regardless of side, has granted you this Luna's Crescent of Mercy.”

The Empress produced yet another case.  It was of wood that glowed golden yellow.  On the case was Celestia's Sun.  Inside, the medallion was of yellow gold inlaid with ruddy red gold in the form of a heart.  The Empress set that ribbon about his neck too.

“For your wounds, taken in the service of  your Princess Celestia, you are granted the Solar Heart.

“I have one other thing, granted from your Princess Celestia.” She produced an ornately framed and beautifully lettered Citation for Courage.  She also handed Iron an envelope.

“Along with the Citation for Courage goes this benefice.  She has granted you 100 golden bits a year.  You may draw that money in Equestrian Bits or Empire Realms.”

She once again crouched respect.  Rising, she said, “I hope that we shall meet again, Master Sargent.  It is my honor to know that such as you serve me.

“I have one last request, which you may freely accept or reject. Major Graak has informed me that you, through the tactics that you used, revealed a major weakness in the training of our troops.  We have seriously undervalued the importance of ground combat.  During your weeks of recovery, could you please assist our trainers to understand how that work is done best?”

Iron answered, “Of course, your Highness.  I would be honored.” He sort of shuddered.  Looking at Nurse Graysa, his vision faded.

He faintly heard, “Do not be alarmed, your Highness.  He is simply tired out.  One does not lose as much blood as he did and dance the Shehara.”

Iron woke in the middle of the night, to judge by the window.  He was ravenous.  He was surprised to see Nurse Graysa sitting quietly by reading from a book of a kind that he had never seen before.

He spoke softly, “Aren't you off shift?”

She looked up and nodded, folding her book and wrapping a red string about it to keep it closed.  “I am.  You slept through dinner.  I saved it for you.  The others keep trying to take away your tray!  I had to guard it if you were going to get anything at all!”

Graysa brought over the tray and uncovered the food.  She loaded a fork with clover salad.  Iron was about to say something when she stopped him.  “Food is important.  You saw how fast you collapsed and can see how long your recovery took.  For now, let me feed you. Later, you will be able to feed yourself.  Not yet, though.”

Iron was practical enough to see the sense of her words.  Besides, there was the simple fact that she was far stronger than he was, for now.  He opened his mouth.  Being fed by Nurse Graysa turned out to be more fun and erotic than Iron had ever imagined.  As she turned from tray to him, the front of her uniform proved to be open, granting him exciting glimpses of her feathered breasts.  The distraction was sufficient to keep him from noticing the taste of cold hospital rations.

When he had eaten she leaned forward and playfully beak stroked the unbandaged left side of Iron's face.  Leaning over him, her uniform fell open entirely.  The golden brown feathers covering her breasts became yellow down surrounding her bare nipples.  She took his right hoof and gently pulled it into her narrow cleavage.  Crest smiling, she told him in a saucy voice, “Stop being such a gentleman!  You are not an officer and one!”

Iron grinned back and retorted, “Exercise to help me get my strength back?”  He put his other foreleg around her and pulled her close.  The beak stroking sort of kiss took only a few moments to get used to.  Her body was firm and solidly muscled contrasting erotically with the softness of her breasts under his exploring hoof.

Graysa made a little chirping purr as he responded.  Her talented talon played with his stallionhood again.  For some reason, he came more quickly than the previous time.  She shifted her position and Iron felt her long, slightly rough and very exciting tongue “cleaning up the mess.”

She shifted position on his nest again.  He found her lovely form pressed next to him.  His hoof, exploring the soft wonder of her feathered breasts, encountered a necklace pendant hidden in the feathers of her chest.

Curious, he pulled it out to where he could see it better.  Graysa assisted him in seeing it by lifting up some, trailing her nipples teasingly across his chest.  The pendant looked for all the world like some ideogram of Chineighese.

Her crest took a complex expression, both sad, wistful and smiling, all at once.  She responded to his unspoken question, “It is a character from an ancient language.  I like it because my name of Graysa means Wise Gryphoness and the ancient word is Wisdom.”

Iron sensed from the complex expression of her crest  that there might be more to it.  Telling it was up to her, though.  He let the pendant fall and returned to the more pleasant pursuit of pleasure. Between the interlude and the excitingly exotic female beside him, he was “Up to the challenge.”

She worked his shaft with her talon for a little and then, lust lighting her eyes and crest, straddled him on the nest, driving herself down, taking his full stallionhood deep into her body.  She leaned forward, bracing herself with a talon on each side of him. Her breasts tickling his chest  again.  She started to rhythmically pump herself on his hard shaft, her breasts bobbing against him with each stroke.  Iron held her in a strong grip about her muscular waist and helped her action.

She came in a strong almost bucking and shuddering orgasm.  She bit her beak tight to keep from crying out in ecstasy.  As her orgasm passed, she resumed her eager assault on Iron's very willing self.  

He felt the tight slickness of her around his cock, shifting, lifting and driving down,   tickling him toward release. It took only a few minutes before she came in another shaking, hip thrusting orgasm.  In the middle of her intense orgasm, Iron came too, shooting his sperm into her.

They lay together, beak stroking and nuzzling in contentment.  Graysa softly closed Iron's open eye.  She whispered into his left ear, “Sleep, Soldier and Lover.  Sleep well and dream of something other than war.”    

Iron, breathing deeply and regularly, smiling in his sleep, eye twitching in a dream, did not notice when nurse Graysa slipped silently out of the room.

The next morning, wondering if his memory of last night was a dream, Iron was able to sit up and eat his breakfast without help.

The nurses, including nurse Graysa, came in and did the usual nurse things with temperature blood pressure, respiration and, new to Iron, a simple test of hearing acuity.  The nurse holding the clicking device told him, “Since one ear has suffered damage, it is important to be sure that the good ear is working properly.”

A doctor came in and all of the nurses deferred to him.  “Time for a dressing change, Master Sargent.  While we are doing it, you will still have no use of your right eye, so do not be alarmed.  For your eyelids to heal in a functional way, we had to immobilize them for now.”

The doctor stood back while nurse Graysa took charge of the actual dressing change.  As soon as the bandages were off, the doctor examined the healing progress with a magnifier and expertly trimmed away a bit of tissue.  Commenting, “Talon rakes are so nasty! Still, this one is healing very well.  I expect that you will be out of the hospital in only another two days.  You will be on restricted activity until your blood volume is back to normal.  That might be several weeks.  We will have to see.  We Gryphons have little medical experience with ponies.”

Iron nodded acceptance.  “I understand, Doctor.  What about my ear? A nurse indicated that it was involved.”

“The talon rake took a piece out of your outer ear.  We have no experience with such ear structures, so we sealed the edges of the removed portion.  It is already well healed.”

After the doctor left, nurse Graysa approached, crest at a grin.  She held the medicine bottle and spoon!  “If it helps, Master Sargent Iron, this is a blood strengthening tonic.  We cleared it through the Equestrian medical personnel at the Embassy.  And NO.  Gryphons don't like it either!”

As she fed Iron the tonic, she winked and whispered in a conspiratorial way, “If you sleep through dinner, I may be forced to stay past my shift to guard it and make sure that you get it!” Her crest bobbed up jauntily.

The day was a hospital day.  Boring.  Except for occasional nurse visits, and they were strictly professional.  At his afternoon dose of tonic, nurse Graysa gently laid the side of claw on his eyelid, pulling it down and shutting his eye.  She murmured, “Sleep, Iron. Sleep well and be rested when you awaken, this evening.”

It was after dark when Iron woke up.  He did feel well rested for the first time since Shattered Claw Pass.  Turning his head quietly, he saw nurse Graysa looking at a scroll that appeared to have a painting and some sort of Chineighese or the like characters on it.  She was silently weeping.

Iron gave her the time to deal with whatever it might be.  In a few minutes, she rolled the scroll, bound it with a red cord and put it away.  He figured that he had seen something very private and said nothing of it.  Instead, he yawned and stretched.

Her crest immediately went to a smile.  “Awake at last, are you?

“And feeling better rested than in a long time.”

“Good.  A recovering soldier needs his strength!  I saved your dinner again!”  Her crest popped up to saucy grin.  “Want me to feed you again, like last night?”

With crystal clarity, he recalled all that went with that dinner! Eager, he replied, “That sounds like a great idea!”  She promptly opened her uniform entirely, dropped it and stood proudly before Iron.  She wore a lingerie that covered everything . . . in transparent gauze!  It was a bare wisp of smoke that hung from a lace strand above her breasts, down to  just below them, like a skirt, it was open at the lower end.  The bottom border had a small fringe whose minuscule weight was all that kept the light fabric in place.

About her hips was another, wider strip of matching lace.  Garters hung from it to hose, encasing her legs.  A short skirt, exactly matching her top, hung from the lace belt almost to mid thigh.   She shrugged her wings up and half spread them.

Her delight at Iron's stunned expression was obvious.  She pirouetted slowly around, her tufted tail reaching out to stroke Iron from neck to groin.  As she sat to the nest and started to feed Iron bites of his dinner, her tail mischievously feather duster tickled his private parts.

Giggling a bit at her trick, Graysa leaned forward to put bites into his mouth, her reaching foreleg “accidentally” caught her loose top and lifted the fabric away.  It hung up in her feathers, leaving her breasts invitingly bare.

Between bites, Iron managed to get out, “I do believe that you are trying to seduce me, madam!”  Then he lost it and began to snicker.

Dinner over, Graysa snuggled next to Iron, her tits pressed to his chest, a wing covering him.  Her tail continued to stroke him most naughtily!

Mindful of her wings, Iron pulled her into a hug and rolled her to her back.  Her crest grinned, while lifting her knees to drop the gauze skirt up around her waist, welcoming his hard member's thrust. She did not have to wait!

As he pushed into her firm but yielding cunt, she was hit by more giggles.  Without stopping the stroking that he started, Iron raised his eyebrow questioningly.

She filled in, “That tonic seems to be working wonders!”

Iron managed to retain his stroking pace as he joined her in the giggles.  Their shared light mood both hid their rising passion and enhanced its release as they orgasmed together.  

Iron held Graysa close as he slowly collapsed.  She returned the embrace fiercely.  She stroked and tickled from the bandages on his head, down the side of his mane and down his back.  She held him by legs and wings wrapped about him and beak stroked his face.

“Mission accomplished!” she whispered.  “Well done, Iron.  Well done indeed.”

She carefully rolled him back to the nest.  Getting up, she first covered him neatly and beak stroked his open eye shut.  “Sleep well and heal, my General, someday.”

Dressing in her uniform, she softly left the room.

The next morning, Iron was greeted by the usual gaggle of nurses doing all of their needful nurse things.  Breakfast, when it came, was uninspired but, like hospital food anywhere  he had ever been, it was edible.

Graysa accompanied the doctor.  She expertly snipped away the bandages.  Nodding in satisfaction, the doctor asked, “Would you like to see how well your eye has healed?  I am going to remove the stabilizing stitches now.  When I do, open your eye slowly.  It will be painful at first.”

He reached for Iron's right eye with fine forceps and small scissors. Iron felt the pulling and tweaking as stitches were removed.  The doctor was right.  It hurt.

He opened his eye and looked at Graysa.  She crest smiled happily at him.

He had to say, “My eye does hurt.  Looking at you makes it hurt a lot less!”

The doctor made notes in his folder.  Lifting his eyes to Iron, he said, “It appears that you can be discharged from the hospital today.  You have friends and well wishers to take care of you.  They are already waiting for you.”

Shortly, Haze entered the room.  “Sarge!  They said you are really weak, yet.  We have a trundle for you!  We really upset the Brass in Equestria!  I will fill you in later, but we are ALL on detached duty!  They want us to stay with the catbirds and away from them!” All the while that he was talking he was helping Iron to get into the hospital trundle.  

Graysa came in and gently beak stroked Iron before handing him a package.  Unequal red eyes twinkling, crest raised in an ambiguous smile, she offered, “Here are all of your personal effects and your medals.  It has been such an honor to serve all of your needs.”

~~ ~~ ~~

Sitting in the control chair of her nerve center at the top of the ERIS, Inc. tower, the dragonequis raised her unequal red eyes from the many screens and consoles that controlled so much.  Gazing out of the large window, she took in the scene of Equestria spread out before her.  Lovely.  Easily worth the massive efforts that she and her organization  put into it.

One of her screens chimed for attention.  Princess Luna gazed out of it at her long standing friend.  “Eris!  I am so happy to catch you in!  I wanted to fill you in on what we are doing to support the Empress against those Rebels.”  The Princess of Night chuckled.

“I have had my hooves full with General Horshet!  Do you know that he still wants to find a way to cashier that Master Sargent Iron Hooves?”

Rather dryly Eris replied, “I was aware of that.  Sort of a personality flaw for a general to put personal feelings ahead of effectiveness.”

“Oh, I do know it, Eris!  I had to directly threaten his career to straighten him out.  I . . .  Dear!  Did you lose the pendant that you always wear?

“What?  That?  No, I gave it to a being that had need of it.  I can easily replace it.  It is only gold.

“Now, about those supplies that you are sending . . .”

~~ ~~ ~~

Down in a deep valley not too far from the Imperial Eyrie, Iron was met by all of his small command.   All twenty five of Iron's Claws, both pony and gryphon, were there.  Their cheers at seeing him were not thunderous but they WERE as loud as twenty five throats could be!

He was surprised at who stepped out of the headquarters building. Major Graak saluted him first!  As Iron saluted back, the Major said, “I persuaded the Empress to create a special ground combat school. You and your troops will be our instructors.  The officers that you train will carry the training to our army.

“After a tactical and strategic analysis of Shattered Claw, our High Command concluded that what you pulled off without losing a single life was not possible by any means that we know.  They did factor in knowing how the MT81s were transported.  We still could not have done it.

“We hope to greatly shorten the war with your skills to guide us.”

Iron, speaking in front of the whole small command, said, “I heard that you continued to rescue enemy fallen after I was wounded out. That was true courage at its best, Major.”

Major Graak looked down at Iron in his trundle and replied, “I had the best example of the courage to do what needed doing that I could ever hope to find, Sir.”

Haze was helping Iron set up his new quarters.  Unpacking the box from the hospital he proudly set out Iron's new medals in a display case.  He stopped, puzzled.  He had a necklace pendant shaped like an oriental ideogram and a note written in Gryphon.

“What are these, Sir?  Some award that I did not hear about?”

Iron's jaw dropped when he saw the pendant.  “A nurse at the hospital had it.  She said that it meant wisdom in an ancient oriental language.  Let me see the note.”

The note read : “Dear Master Sargent Iron,  A token to remember me by.  As you so well guessed, Graysa means Wise Gryphoness.  I gift you with my Wisdom.  May it guide you well.”

Haze shook his head.  “I kind of have a hobby of non Equestrian writing systems, Sir.   That doesn't look quite right.  Let me check.”

Shortly, Haze returned with a Chineighese folding book.  “I was right, Sir.  That is not Chineigese for wisdom.  Here, see for yourself.”

Iron took a look and agreed.  “She said that it was an ancient language, Haze.  This is modern Chineighese.”

“Ancient, Sir?  That would almost have to be . . .”  Haze trailed off.  He left.  It was three hours before he got back, a very different fold book in his hooves.

“Ancient is the word for it, Sir.  The original X'ibian language was outlawed and replaced by Chineighese characters after the conquest, a thousand or more years ago.  

“It does say Wisdom in ancient X'ibian.  It has a funny footnote too.  You will get a kick out of it.”

Iron took the book and looked at the page.  The featured character was the same as the pendant.  It was the word for wisdom.  The footnote added, “By coincidence, this character was also the name of the famous and legendary Dragon Queen of X'ibia who vanished shortly after the death of Im Farst, first Emperor of the X'ibian Empire.”

Iron shook his head.  Graysa, Wise, Wisdom, the Dragon Queen?  No. It couldn't be . . .

~~THE END~~

[wildefiction]

Of Course...Mr. Collins

TWENTY-TWO

The plane ride home was exhausting, though otherwise uneventful. An early morning arrival met you and Misha with dark, wet roads and a severe drop in temperature, immediately making you wish you were back on the islands.

At just after four in the morning, you said your goodbyes to Misha and Cliff before falling into bed. While Hawaii had been beautiful, you were happy to be home. With the California convention closing out the season, you wondered what Misha would have you do during the winter break. Wrapping yourself in a nest of blankets, your eyes closed almost immediately after crawling into your four-poster canopy bed.

Plaintive cries of indignation tore you from a dreamless sleep and you woke to find both of your cats pointedly staring at you from atop their position on your stomach. One of them had the good grace to at least offer a rumbling purr at the first sign of your stirring. Your attempts to ignore their demands for food by rolling to the other side of the mattress did little to deter them. Snuffling purrs rolled against the curve of your ear, whiskers tickling the skin with their light touch. “Fine, yes, I’m getting up!” With a heaving groan you stumbled from the soft surface, absentmindedly filling the empty dishes in the kitchen so as to dissuade the complaints of the dependents who wound through your legs.

Dragging the comforter from your room to wrap around your shoulders, you settled into the couch for a day of movie watching. Since your sister was still in Hawaii with Galen, the idea of a quiet day at home was just what you needed. Flipping through several social media platforms and seeing no updates from her surprised you, usually she dominated the websites with non-stop photos. Shrugging it off, your attention turned back to the tv, content with your decision to have a Harry Potter marathon. Musing to yourself, you wondered, was it possible to watch all seven movies in one day?

You were able to make it through the first and most of the second film before dozing off, and the rest of the day was filled with a cycle of sleeping, switching discs and eating. Towards the end of the evening, an Instagram notification appeared on your phone, once again startling you from the light state of unconsciousness you’d drifted in and out of today. A half smile of relief at the beachy sunset quelled the uneasiness that had tried to worm its way into your mind. Watching over your sister had been something you’d tasked yourself with from a young age, and even now that the two of you were adults, it was a hard habit to break.

Early the next morning, you dressed quickly. One perk to having an early-to-rise boss was that often by eight am you’d already been awake for a couple hours. This schedule had almost seamlessly transferred to include your days off. Thanksgiving was a week away and you’d finally be able to not only afford all of the ingredients for a literal feast, but also have people to share your efforts with. A beautiful fall day greeted you as you descended the stairs, stopping a moment to appreciate the crisp chill of the air and the dried leaves that painted the ground in values of crimson, gold and tangerine.

Turning your music up and speeding through scattered leaves had you smiling to yourself when you pulled into the grocery store parking lot a few minutes later. Although it was early, plenty of people were already gathering their groceries for the upcoming holiday. Pointing the key fob over your shoulder and pulling the crimson peacoat more securely around your shoulders, the audible beeping of the car locking echoed around you.

Grabbing your phone from the pocket inside your bag, you unlocked the screen and navigated through the applications until you found the list of ingredients you needed to purchase. Humming contentedly to yourself as the pile of produce and baking components accumulated in the cart, you didn’t notice until too late that you’d bumped into another lady in front of you. As you rushed to apologize, you quickly realized it was your old boss. 

The furtive glances and tight-lipped smile she offered created an air of awkwardness as you mumbled an obligatory hello. 

“So…[Y/F/N], ho-how have you been?” The light touch of her fingertips on your shoulder made you flinch, though you doubted she had noticed. Her white-knuckled grip on the handles of her basket betrayed her confident demeanor. Taking a deep breath, you considered. How had you been? Fucking fantastic was the answer. And yes, you had been upset when she’d unceremoniously fired you, but without having had that happen, you might never have been given the opportunity to accept what had literally become your dream-job. 

“Actually...I’ve been great! I found a new position pretty quickly and I’m so grateful that things worked out how they did. Otherwise, I’d still be struggling to pay my bills and feeling like my career was going nowhere.” 

The excitement in your tone was unquestionable, but the look of hurt in the woman’s eyes made it clear that she’d thought you were being frigid. 

“Oh! I mean..I was really appreciative of the relationship we’d formed for the years I worked for you, please don’t misunderstand. I’m not trying to be rude, and I realize you could only offer me so much. Really though, you gave me something I didn’t have the courage to do for myself; an out. So, for that, thank you.” 

The tentative smile and confidence that swept through you allowed you to fold her into a hug, her bewildered expression delaying her reaction. As she brought her arms up to return the hug, you were already stepping back, guiding your cart around her. 

“Happy Holidays!” The lilting tone in your voice settled into the same comfortable humming from earlier as you added the final items from your list to the cart.

Amongst the friendly chatter with the young woman ringing up your groceries, your phone began to ring. The muffled sounds of Louden Swain drifted from the bottom of your bag and you set to work digging through the expansive tote trying to find the device in time to answer it. 

“I love Louden Swain, did you go to their concert in Seattle last month?” The bright brown eyes of the cashier lit up, and with them, so did her entire face. “I didn’t get to unfortunately, I had to work - but I was able to see them perform a few days ago in Hawaii, they are fantastic aren’t they?” 

Nodding as she finished calculating your order, you lifted the phone to your ear just in time to have the ringing silence itself. Flipping through the caller ID, you realized it was Misha who’d called. Not wanting to be rude, you paid for your purchases and thanked the woman, wishing her a Happy Thanksgiving as you dialed the number to reach your boss. 

“Hey Misha, what’s up?” 

“Nothing, just some errands.” 

As you turned to leave you didn’t notice the look of surprise come over the woman’s face who watched you walk away from her checkstand, bags of groceries gripped tightly in your hand.

As you unloaded the items from the back of your car and carried them up the three flights of stairs to your apartment, your phone rang again. Luckily, this time it started right as you reached the final landing. 

“Norman! Wow, I didn’t expect you to call, how are you?!” The excitement in your voice caused you to miss the questioning tone of his voice. 

“Why’da think ah wou’na call ya?” “Happy Thanksgivin’ Sunshine!” Laughing, you returned the greeting only to remind him that you still had a week to prepare and not to jinx you. As the two of you discussed your individual holiday plans, the phone beeped against your shoulder just as you set the milk in the door of the refrigerator. 

“One sec, that’s my other line.” Switching calls, Misha was there asking you to work for a few hours. Looking around to make sure everything was put away, you scooped some food from the container for your cats and lowered the bowls to the ground. Not knowing how long you were going to be gone, you’d rather know the girls had been fed early than making them wait too long. Promising you’d be there soon, you ended the call as you once again grabbed your keys and shut the door behind you. There hadn’t even been enough time to take off your coat.

As you docked your phone in the car cradle, you quickly realized the second line was on hold; Norman was still waiting. Cursing, you quickly fumbled for the screen as you started the car. 

“Sorry, I totally didn’t forget that you were still waiting on me.” Laughter echoed through your car speakers as you turned left out of the parking lot and headed for I-5 North. 

“I forgive ya, swee’har, dun worry abou’ it.” Norman kept you company for the drive to Misha’s house, talking about meeting new people in Australia for the wrap-up of season three. A tired sigh filtered through the space around you and you recognized the sound of exhaustion that came with Norman’s voice. 

“Hey, just one more week till Thanksgiving, you can stuff yourself silly and nap all day!” The laughter in your voice ebbed away when Norman snorted. 

“Nah, gotta work till Wednesday and I’m just hanging out in Georgia for the rest of the week. Gonna be kina quiet, Mingus is spending the week with ‘is mom - so it’s just gonna be me an’ Eye.” A quiet huff punctuated the statement. “Anyhow, ya prolly gettin’ close ta Misha’s place - I’ll talk ta ya later, gotta get back ta work.” After saying your goodbyes, the call ended just as you pulled into Misha’s driveway.

Sitting in the office chair behind his desk, you set to work organizing the newest information for the project that would replace Gishwhes. Although you’d never gotten the chance to participate in the scavenger hunt, the new version sounded just as fun. 

“Hey, [Y/F/N], can you call Jensen and ask if they’ll still be in Vancouver next week? I need a headcount for dinner.” 

Scribbling the note on a scrap piece of paper so you wouldn’t forget, you grabbed your phone to look up his number. 

“Oh! And Rachel is waiting on the final numbers from the Castiel ops we offered last weekend, can you email Creation and have them contact her please?” 

The task joined the one on your notepad as you continued to scroll through your now extensive contacts list. The sheer amount of phone numbers you’d received over the last week still surprised you. Muttering to yourself, you ran through the entries, 

“Briana, Kim, Jared...there, Jensen.” 

A text message from your sister came through just as you were about to call the Ackles'.

‘Hey love, won’t be home for Thanksgiving next week, Galen wants me to stay another few days. Love you.”

As your shoulders dropped at the news, you couldn’t say you weren’t disappointed, but you were happy she was having a good time. Pushing the thought from your mind, you went back to calling Jensen as you opened a blank email and sent the request for a financial report to the convention team.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

TAGS: @jamielea81 @wings-of-a-raven

[starfleetdoesntfirefirst]

May I propose to you: Mirror!Philippa x Reno. the disaster pan/disaster lesbian ship we deserve.

Thank you so much for this excellent #disaster concept!

(After being informed in response to my pestering that tin-can would prefer to be surprised as to content, I used a random number generator to pick one question and one prompt! I did throw out the first question it actually gave me (“who kisses harder” boring), so it wasn’t totally random, but I also rolled with the not-super-fitting-at-first-glance first prompt I got, which was a lot of fun. :D)

(otp question meme)

8. Nicknames? & if so, how did they originate?

I’m pretty sure these two call each other very little other than nicknames, all of them sardonic. Philippa gets spy-related nicknames, in Jett’s most sarcastic tone. “All right, Mr. Bond.” “Sure, Intergalactic Woman of Mystery.” “Great plan, Mrs. Peel.” “Whatever you say, Maxwell-Smart-in-hot-pants.”

Philippa, meanwhile, generally goes with “hey you” or “you.” When she does use proper nicknames, they’re said with a sneer, but come with an underlying implication of respect, because the nicknames she uses for Jett tend to be the nicknames Jett gives herself. Given that they’re derogatory terms in the first place that she takes on to mess with the likes of Stamets, a la “gearhead” and “grease monkey,” there are a few layers at play here, but Philippa usually uses said nicknames when she’s asking for Jett’s expertise or opinion at something. So, the backhanded admission of respect for Jett, her competence, and her chosen vocation comes through loud and clear.

(fluffy kiss prompts)

6. A press of lips to knuckles, a hand clasped in the other, a courtly gesture of respect and admiration, perhaps segueing into a dance, staring into each others eyes, drinking in the emotion

ETA: now on ao3!

Strains of music from the gala downstairs float upwards, drifting through the arched ceiling of the ballroom and up through the parquet floor into the quiet, echoing dimness of the room with the bomb. Jett lets the music become part of her rhythm as she twists wires and detaches components, using her modified soldering iron to fry connections one by one in the universe’s most careful game of find-the-right-order-of-operations until finally, finally, the red countdown on the detonator flickers and goes out.

She performs a few more checks, then dashes drops of sweat from her forehead and allows herself a brief moment to take a breath before spending a few more minutes disabling the detonator itself, then taking apart the bomb’s explosive components so that, even if the bomb and its detonator are carefully reattached, each will remind inert.

“Are you done yet?” whines a voice a hair’s breath from her right ear.

“I’ll be done when I say I’m done,” Jett says, refusing to so much as flick her gaze in her companion’s direction. Behind her, Philippa gives a theatrical huff, her high-heeled boots clicking their way across the parquet flooring towards the door and back again.

As she finishes her work, Jett sighs, then sets her tweezers on the floor with a click. She is half-expecting Philippa to come up behind her again. But when Jett  turns and stands, wincing and rubbing her sore knees as she does so, the other woman is standing in the middle of the floor, arms sulkily folded.

“That took forever.”

“For me to do your job? Yeah.” Jett shoots her a look. “I didn’t see you helping, Agent 99. Spies really don’t learn how to defuse a bomb with seconds to spare these days, huh?”

Philippa pointedly holsters the phaser in her hand. “I was making sure you didn’t get shot in the head while you worked. You’re welcome.”

Jett nods at the door. “Evidently our colleagues rounded up the baddies before they could even make it up here–”

“Except for that one I disarmed and very ethically did not murder while he was was guarding the bomb–

“–so once he was tied up and I was working, there was no one to protect me from. You,” she finishes, “were slacking, Georgiou.”

“Hmm.” Philippa smiles sweetly. “Don’t accuse me of slacking, gearhead. I could have defused that little device in half the time it took you if you’d let me have a  go at it.”

“Given that the ‘go’ you wanted to have consisted of shooting the detonator and hoping it fried this ‘little device’ before it took out us and all seven hundred people downstairs, I think you could’ve stood to suck it up, be my assistant, and hand me the tweezers.”

“Well, you seem to have done just fine without me as your assistant, Reno.” Philippa pouts for a minute, staring gloomily at the doorway as though hoping an enemy combatant might still run through it. “Now we’re both stuck here, slacking, until we get our beamout.” There are a few seconds of silence, broken only by the faint sounds of the gala below. A slow smile spreads across Philippa’s face. “Unless…”

Stepping forward, she reaches for Jett’s hand, slowly raising it and brushing her lips against Jett’s knuckles, the grace of the gesture contrasting with the hungry gleam in her eyes.

“May I have this dance?” she asks, voice low and husky.

Jett gives her a look, but allows herself to be pulled gently into the waltz position. Philippa’s hand is smoothly calloused where her fingers entwine with Jett’s, and with the hand on Philippa’s back, Jett can feel the warm of Philippa’s torso through her leather jacket, her hand rising and falling with the other woman’s breath. “You weren’t kidding about slacking, were you?”

“This is a ball.” Music is still floating up to them, the notes of a slow walz, liquid and languid. “Isn’t that what people do at a ball? Dance?”

Jett smiles sardonically as they begin to move across the room together, the soft steps of her Starfleet-issue boots and the hard click of Philippa’s heels echoing against the floor. “Is that what spies do at a ball? I wouldn’t know. I’m just the grease monkey, remember?”

“You make an excellent spy, Reno,” Philippa says. Her voice is low and her breath is soft against Jett’s face, and there is a glimmer deep in her eyes that Jett thinks might be genuine admiration.

“But a better engineer,” says Jett, just as quietly, after a moment.

The half-question in Philippa’s eyes fades, leaving a trace of disappointment before she tilts her head to the side, smiling roguishly.

“Then I suppose,” she says, in a more exaggerated, throatier voice, “I’d better make the most of tonight.” Gently, she tugs Jett more closely towards her, and Jett smiles, allowing herself, just for the night, to be pulled in.

[imagine-that-one-thing]

Styles. || 2

Hard to love.

I pat my pen against my leg as the professor drones on about something I’m not completely engaged in.

I’m exhausted. I just want to sleep.

This whole balancing work, an internship, and school along with studying is draining me. I’m in over my head at the moment--practically drowning, but I can’t have it any other way.

The quicker I can get my bachelor's degree finished, the quicker I can start my Masters and then conquering the business world.

Thank God I only have four more months. May 26th marks the last day of exams and the end of the semester. Then, in June, I graduate with my bachelors and continue on to my Master degree.

I sigh, rolling my eyes at the professor. Perhaps if the political economy weren’t so dull and he didn’t have such an uninteresting, monotone voice, I wouldn’t want to bang my head against the desk... repeatedly. I have a modest understanding of political and economic events and processes in a global context, therefore; the next few weeks of listening to this man are a waste of my time. I already read ahead in the textbook and have a head start on the essays… I am at the point where I am tempted to skip this class for some extra sleep.

The professor puts me out of my misery and dismisses us early; I can only assume he caught on that most of us were dozing, and for once, decided to cut us some slack, which is very rare.

I stroll out of the lecture,  pondering whether I want to go to my apartment to nap and dismiss what I need to study or if I should go to the library and study— run into her. I tear myself away from the fantasy I have of the woman, (that I possess in an exclusively non-disturbing way). Suddenly, I recognize him— I notice the man who has managed to destroy me without recognising it— Logan.

He’s the love child that was never acknowledged. I found out about him just over two years ago.

When I was eighteen his mother summoned me while Logan laid in the hospital, of all the things I expected, I didn’t expect to be informed that he required a blood transfusion at the age of seventeen. I didn’t expect I would be the one to help out.

I couldn’t say no, even if he was the secret love child.

They attempted to locate a donated blood component that closely matched him, but apparently, I was the best source.

Nobody knows about Logan, not my mother or my sister. I don’t have the heart to tell either of them of my findings.

I decided to keep it a secret for my mother’s sake, I know it will break her further than she is already. There are some days I question whether me being five hours away is okay, but I have to keep reminding myself that I can’t keep sojourning in the same place that essentially handles all my demons. I needed to get away and my university was my only opportunity.

I propose my best to check in on my mother every day, even if it is to listen to the silence on the other end of the phone. I’m not quite sure what went wrong, she isn’t herself anymore; I don’t really blame Mum. I think the resentment of me leaving is still to blame— but I had to leave— I had to spread my wings and free myself of the shackles and demons of Cheshire.

As for my sister, I had the chance to tell my sister a few weeks ago, but I decided not to.

As a meagre getaway, my sister overpowered me to go to New York with her. We went to the studio that we cherish, it is our little spot, despite the fact that sometimes I can’t stand the place.

I didn’t want to be there, in the studio I used to love while encompassed by walls that knew more about me than most people did.

I didn’t aspire to be in a place that held some of the memories I carried with my father.

If it wasn’t for him, I would never have found my love for music and instruments; I would never have kept coming back to the small studio. But at the same time, if it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have an outcasted brother and this secret that will undoubtedly haunt me until it takes me to the grave.

One of the things that play on my heartstrings is the fact that the only time I was only acknowledged when Logan required a blood transfusion, it was the only time his mother contacted me. I was nothing but a blood bank.

They used the broken child to save the love child— how ironic, though— that I was broken because of him, Logan.

Logan annihilated my family.

Every weekend when my sister and I would want to play with our father, he was always getting ready to leave—he was going to his mistress and love child.

For the first couple of years, while Logan got the supreme father on the weekends, we got the half-assed father on weekdays who didn't know the difference between a bottle of whiskey and his own daughter.

While Logan got the warm tender hugs and sweet voice, my sister held me tightly every time our parents would fight. I can still feel her arms shaking while they wrapped around me for comfort.

It was a crying, screaming, a darkened storm raging between them.

I still remember hiding in my wardrobe, praying for everything to settle, for the screaming, the fighting, and the constant emotional battles to cease.

I will never forget assembling at the back of my sister's closet, my back against the stiff wall, my knees up to my chest as I tried to ignore everything that was around me.

Oh, how I tried so hard.

It is hard to ignore a racing heart and the throbbing in your chest every time the shattering of glass echoes through the house.

Still, to this day, glass breaking sends shivers down my body and takes me back to the dark days I don’t want to remember.

The nights felt like they had no end, they felt like they were suffocating me in every single way possible, dismantling me limb by limb, emotion by emotion— until I was left as an empty shell— an empty man.

When my father was satisfied, he was great, but when he was grave, he was like a tornado ready slaughter anything in its route— it was like being on death row.

I have resented him, my father, for my broken family, my broken pieces, and for destroying me.

✿✿✿ 

The tone of knocking on the apartment door lures me away from my nap against my books. I rub my dreary grey eyes for a moment and huff as the door is knocked against, repeatedly.

Some people are so damn impatient, fuck.

I shift back in my chair and stand to my feet and pad to my door.

The moment I open the door, my world ceases to spin for a moment and I feel a bit light headed. There he is, the man who has governed hell on me.

He stands at my door with the same unmerciful, bloodshot eyes and alcohol infused scent— My Father.

I go to close the door on him but I’m not quick enough.

“Don’t fuckin’ close the door on me you prick.”

“And what do I owe this fucking visit?” I mutter as he stumbles his drunk ass inside my apartment.

He has an issue with not grasping when he isn’t fucking wanted nor needed. He additionally has an issue with establishing how to stay sober.

"Don't take that tone with me, son."

"Get out of my apartment, go back to the bar," I instruct, securing the door wide open for him, but he doesn't take my guidance. Instead, he takes his alcohol-infused body to wander around my apartment. "What part of getting out, do you not get?" I challenge.

He glares at me with malignant eyes that are ruthless, they're eyes I have observed before.

His searing glares makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.

"Jus' like yeh mother, never know when to quit. Hard to love. HA, for that matter you’re unlovable.."

I feel my nerves tick and my teeth bite down on my tongue. He knows what he is doing, he knows he's hitting my nerves.

‘This is what he wants, breathe.’

"Don't speak of her," I mutter unhappily.

My mother is none of his concern, she wasn’t when they were married and she saw as hell isn't now. There’s no need for him to speak ill of her, she does no such thing of him. Common courtesy would be for him to back the fuck off and let us all live our lives, but apparently, he’s determined to make them miserable.

"I'll do what the fuck I want, you're worthless just like her... you don't even deserve the title as my son."

"Get-the-fuck-out!" I raise my voice further, my hands shaking with rage that I am trying to hold back.

My father just laughs this bothersome sound— it is full of defiance and cynicism— it is the kind of chuckling tone that you want to strike out of someone.  

"Ah, fuck off," he sneers.

I grit my teeth and attempt to take a breath, "look here, I’ve come to the end of my patience." ... “You are a cunning, devil of a human. You're bloody mad. GET OUT!" I raise my voice, struggling to contain myself.

"I ought to Box your ears for being a cock-up"

He is pushing me to my limits, he really is. I don't have the time for his bullshit.

"Wouldn't be the first damn time," I murmur through my teeth.

I only speak the truth, there have been other times he and I have had our moments and scuffles. He seems to think because he is the ‘parent’ that he has the rights to ‘teach me a lesson.’ I’m not one for physical violence but with him, he pushes me to the extent where I am left with no choice sometimes. Biologically he might be my father but he doesn’t deserve the right to hold such a title.

He’s nothing to me. He never will be.

"Oh, put a sock in it." My father yells while his face crimson with fury; I am not sure what my father has to be angry about. It isn’t like he was cheated on. It isn’t like he has someone running hell on his life in the same way he is running hell on everyone else's.

My brows bump together in a scowl, "you're shitfaced, just leave," I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose, becoming frustrated and concerned, "alright, out." I step closer to him and gesture for him to use the door.

His eyes burn with hatred before he snaps, physically. He brandishes his fist towards me and for a moment I think about knocking him the fuck out. Instead, I take a breath and shake my head.

I am not going to indulge his ridiculousness.

He begins to go on a rampage through my apartment, throwing my things around like rag dolls, breaking glasses and whatever comes into his site. Something he has done since I can remember. The amount of times my mother's house was turned upside down because of him is an ungodly amount. I still remember the day I walked through the front door and found the entire living room turned into a disaster. If I hadn’t have known better, I’d have assumed a tornado had hit– but it was just the aftermath of my father.

I let him continue to destroy my apartment, mainly because I hope he settles down and realises on his own that he’s making a fucking fool of himself. But he doesn’t. Or he just doesn’t care.

Enough is enough and I grab ahold of him from behind and he scuffles against me, "Don't fucking start what you can't bloody finish!" My father's voice roars, arising to prod his elbow into me before receiving an upper hand.

Fuck.

My fingers delve into the material of his Cerulean blue t-shirt. Before I know it, I hurl him against my apartment wall, the heavy noise of a grunt flying from his repulsive mouth.

Our feet begin to scuffle against the flooring, his fists coming in contact with my body as I continue to pounce and protect myself.

I wish I could say I have mercy on him for each hit I inflict, but I don’t.

I have no mercy whatsoever.

He deserves every single blow; my father commenced this when he should have walked away, but instead, he marched into my apartment.

I can feel nothing but bitterness humming through the blood of my body. I never imagined that the vibration of grunts escaping my father's lips would satisfy me the way it does. Perhaps it is finally getting the revenge he deserves and getting him back for the distraught he has inflicted upon me that satisfies me most.

He has fucked me in so many ways that I can’t begin to figure out just where things first went wrong.

He sought to speak a few times while we stay enraged within a battle of who can draw more blood, but every time I catch a word, my fist just punches him further. Perhaps it is the built-up resentment, perhaps it is the fact he’s not giving up.

I do not care what the fuck it is, he deserves it.

I can't help but feel intense emotion as I continue to devour him with physical blows— the only way I can devour him right now.

He manages to get an upper hand and throws me into the cold, hard ground, leaving a heavy groan to become emerged from my lips.

For a moment, I imagine he has won— I don’t think I have the energy to get back up; I don’t have the power to continue to fight a person who is so manipulative and sinister. I don’t think this is worth it.

He lapses for a moment, giving me enough time to bring myself back to my feet.

My eyes capture the view of his beaten and bruised figure— he gazes at me bleakley and in that moment—I know.

It isn’t over, it’ll never be over.

He pins me back down on my back as his hand beats a glass bottle down beside my head, fragmenting the glass and granting high-strung shivers down my back.

Fuck.

He waves a broken glass with jagged edges in his gripped hand, "told you not to start what you couldn't finish. Jus' like yeh mother, never know when to stop."

"She's a better person than you'll ever be, you asshole," I grunt, trying to fend him off through laboured breaths.

“And ‘hats what’s gonna get your ass-fuckin' killed!” His voice echoes the apartment and takes me back to a moment in my childhood. A moment where his voice was so scary I could have sworn the house shook and every fibre of me collapsed into defeat.

I let out a groan while using the strength in my arms to deter him from lacerating me with the shards of glass. I feel the throbbing of the glass slicing my palm and it only enrages me further to fight against the man that has ruined me.

*

After what feels like the battle of my lifetime and somewhat cheating death, I manage to shove my father out of my apartment while he is half beat; he got what he deserved, it is evident from the blood trickling from his mouth and the intense burning in my overly applied fists.

I glance down at my hand that is dripping blood and I waste no time jumping over through the obstacle course my father has turned my apartment into.

“Fucking asshole,” I murmur as I rummage through my cupboards to find the antiseptic that is buried somewhere in here. “Fuck!” I grumble, noticing the blood trickling down to my bathroom tiles, “hope he rots in hell,” I continue to mumble under my breath before I manage to find the antiseptic and pour it all over my cut palm.

I take notice of how deep the wound is and grab a towel to wrap my hand in.

The fucking prick has left me with a trip to A&E for stitches along with a black and blue torso.

Next Chapter.

 Once again, I owe a big thank you to my BETA's who have helped me with editing and bouncing ideas + allowing me to message them at ungodly hours when I have ideas or need some filler ideas. Thank you, lovely darlings! @lostinreality014 @ca-sunsets @not-nessasarily & @haroldsflowerchild

And thank you to my readers, I can't thank you all enough! XX

[dbhgrace]

Technicolor Beat

Connor x OC (fight me), some time after the events of the game

2072 words

Connor and Grace have a few minutes to relax while Hank is out.

( @dbhsimon, since you were interested. And you’re welcome to share it with anyone else that might be interested. If you want.)

“What do you even do all day whenever Hank is done?”

The question admittedly caught Connor by surprise. Grace was kneeling down in front of him sitting on the couch, tending to the ankle he had damaged the day before. This is why he wasn’t attending the briefing for the new case with Hank; Hank was overly concerned that somehow the rest of him would break if he didn’t get the ankle fixed right away. It was too lucky that Grace was around to help. She had been indispensable to the Detroit deviants since Cyberlife now refused to perform repairs on androids that had the audacity to demand autonomy. Her extensive experience in manufacturing years ago proved to be very useful in a time of shortage of spare parts and experienced technicians willing to help.

“I don’t know,” Connor responded, “he normally doesn’t go many places without me. Wait for him to come back I guess.”

Grace lifted her head from her focus on his leg and gave him a quizzical look. “You don’t do anything for fun?”

“Fun?”

“Like… Hobbies?”

Connor paused. “What counts as a hobby? I like to ‘screw around with that coin,’ as Hank puts it.”

Grace snorted, returning her attention to his ankle. Connor heard a quiet but definitive click, then Grace rotated his foot a few times.

“There,” she said, leaning back with a small, satisfied smile. “That should do it. Might take a little walking to get everything settled into place, so movement might be slightly restricted until you walk it out. So to speak.” She pushed a strand of hair that had strayed from its lose ponytail back behind her ear.

Connor tested his range of movement a moment longer as Grace pushed herself back up to her feet. “Thank you, Grace.”

“Don’t mention it. Just be careful and try not to break anything for, oh, at least a day. I have other people to take care of, you know.” She smirked, then huffed quietly and put her hands on her hips. “Mind if I make myself tea?”

“Hank won’t miss it. I don’t even know why he keeps it, he never touches the stuff,” Connor added, raising his voice slightly as Grace walked into the kitchen.

“Maybe he drinks it when you’re not around,” Grace replied.

“I’m always around.”

Grace shrugged, as if Connor would be able to see her response. “Then he keeps it around for guests who come by to fix his android son after he fucks up jumping through a window seven feet off the ground.”

From the living room, Connor could hear the hum of the electric kettle warming water, then the low hiss of hot water being poured into a mug. Grace reentered the living room a few moments later, delicately cradling the steaming mug in her hands. She lowered her face near the mug, then grimaced and withdrew as if stung by the steam.

“Why don’t you turn on the TV so we’re not just sitting here in awkward silence?” she asked.

Connor looked up at her. “You don’t have to go?”

“I don’t have any pressing issues. Markus can call me if an emergency comes up. And I could use a break.” Her brow furrowed slightly. “You don’t mind do you?”

“No, no, of course not.”

Grace was already halfway to the other side of the couch, as if she had anticipated his agreement. She sat down, careful to not let her tea spill over, and crossed one leg over the other and leaned against the arm of the couch in a comfortable posture. She contemplated the still steaming tea briefly, then seemingly decided it needed more time to cool before turning the television on.

“-berlife claims that they have tracked the location of a lost prototype to somewhere in Detroit after an extended period of being untraceable. This android allegedly has important company in-“

“Next channel,” Grace interjected, and the television complied.

The face of the news anchor was replaced with an advertisement that seemed to be in the middle of setting some elaborate, clever joke to draw people into buying their product. Grace did not seem to mind the lack of unique broadcasting content.

“News is too frustrating right now,” Grace said, answering the question Connor had not asked her. “I know what people think of androids every time I have to scrounge for a replacement arm, or fight to keep someone’s thirium pump regulator going long enough to replace it along with three units of blue blood. I don’t need reminded when everything at the church is going relatively well.”

Connor continued to look at her a moment longer as she continued to gaze solemnly at the bright screen, then turned his attention to the television as some announcer appeared to introduce contestants of some sort. He wasn’t familiar with the face on the screen, but a quick scan revealed the man was a host of a dance contest that was nearing the end of the season.

“Is this you introducing me to a hobby?” Connor asked, turning back to Grace. The man continued to drone on about the contestants’ stories in the background.

“Nah,” Grace shrugged, “watching TV isn’t really a hobby, per se. But it passes time. So it’s an idea for something for you to do while Hank is gone, instead of staring into space contemplating the meaning of life.”

“I don’t contemplate the meaning of life.”

Grace chuckled, now attentive to the changing image. A couple was now on the screen, the man dressed in a smart tan suit and the woman in a yellow ruffled dress that was short in the front and long in the back. The fashion was reminiscent of what may have been considered very stylish twenty years ago, and the music and scenery around them reflected that aesthetic.

The pair were well synchronized; they had been practicing for weeks. Everything flowed into what seemed to be one long, fluid movement, but if he looked closely enough Connor could watch the components of footwork and pattern across the floor that contributed to the dance as a whole. One wrong step would be noticed, but the two were impeccable in their timing. Connor didn’t know much, or anything really, about dancing, but he got the sense that these two were doing well.

Grace sighed wistfully a few feet away. “I’ve always wanted to try dancing,” she said.

Connor waited a moment, continuing to watch the couple, before answering. “Why haven’t you? That could be a fun… hobby.”

“Don’t have a partner. And it feels too strange to go to a class to learn to dance with a complete stranger.” She took a hand away from her still untouched tea, then continued to speak in a lower, exaggerated tone of her own voice, gesturing with her now free hand. “Oh hey, guy or lady I’ve never met, we’re either equally terrible at this or I’m infinitely more terrible than you. Wanna pretend to figure this out and feel so embarrassed that we’ll have someone else next week, repeat ad nauseum until one of us quits?”

Connor raised an eyebrow. “I doubt that’s how it would go,” he said.

“Maybe,” Grace said, shrugging. “Guess I’m just too shy to find out.”

The conversation reached a halt. The room would have been quiet, if not for the old 00’s song playing from the television. As the well-choreographed dance came to a stop and the host introduced the next pair, Grace turned to ask Connor his thoughts. Her question was stopped as she opened her mouth, immediately noticing the blinking yellow circle at his temple.

“Oh, what are you scheming?” she asked.

Connor snapped his head toward her. “What?”

“Please,” she said, “as if I don’t know what that LED means. It only blinks yellow like that when you’re confused or thinking really hard about something. What are you scheming Connor? Did you decide to yank me out of my shell and sign me up for a dance class?”

“Not exactly.”

“Wh-?”

Her confused protest was interrupted as Connor pushed himself up to his feet and walked over to stand in front of her perch on the couch. He extended a hand towards her, and she continued to look up at him.

“Come on, we’ll be equally terrible,” he said, pushing his hand an inch closer.

Grace sputtered briefly. “Con-“

“It can be like a trial version. You can see if you want to do it again next week with a stranger. Repeat ad nauseum.” He insisted another inch further. “Come on, the next song will start any second.”

Grace exhaled a sharp, short laugh. She set the mug aside, safe and out of the way, then took Connor’s hand and let him help pull her to her feet. They stood just a few inches apart, their hands still clasped together. They both hesitated for a beat, then together settled each of their free hand on the other, his hand resting gently at her waist and hers delicately clasping his shoulder.

“You’re going to mess up that ankle I just fixed,” Grace said.

Connor shrugged. “I don’t mind if you have to stay around a little longer.”

Perhaps it was a trick of the lighting as the nearby screen transitioned into a red backdrop. Or perhaps Connor actually saw Grace’s face turn just a shade pinker.

Music began to play from the television speakers, and the pair began to move. This song was certainly much more recent than the previous, released only in the last year. A bright female voice sang over an upbeat, technicolor beat. But Connor and Grace did not hear the lyrics; they were too focused on the movement of their own feet.

Their dance was not an ugly, stumbling thing of two novices. They made full use of the cramped space amongst furniture, stepping and twisting, and within just a few measures Grace was grinning as she whirled herself through a twirl, then pulled herself back into Connor’s arms. His expression lifted when her free hand rested itself on his chest.

“You’re suspiciously good at this,” she noted, raising an eyebrow.

“I cheated,” he admitted. He raised his hand to point at his temple quickly, then rested it back on her waist. “Preconstruction and reconstruction.”

Grace rolled her eyes, but her expression was still light. “Of course you did.”

“You’re pretty good yourself, you know.”

Connor noted her brief expression of surprise at the compliment, but her face quickly settled into a relaxed smile. “Guess I’m a quick learner,” she replied, gazing to the right shyly.

The music had not yet stopped, but their movement had come to a lull. Even Grace’s breathing was controlled and even, despite the activity only a few moments before. The few inches between them had closed. Connor realized suddenly, somehow, that Grace had looked back up at him, and he had been looking back for a few seconds. Or a minute. Or an hour.

Her hand inched up his chest towards his shoulder. His hand pressed just a little more firmly on her waist.

The lighting in the room brightened as headlights outside turned into the driveway.

Grace gasped and jumped back, out of Connor’s arms and into a table. Her wince was quickly followed by a thud as her mug toppled down, spilling its contents onto the floor.

“Oh, shit,” she whispered, and turned towards the kitchen.

“No, I’ll-“ Connor protested. But she was already gone, and it was only a short period before she came back with a handful of towels.

The front door opened as Grace knelt down next to the table to clean up the tea. Connor remained standing the same way he had when Grace had jumped back from him as Hank walked through the door. Hank remained still for a few seconds, as he took in the scene before him. His posture relaxed, and he waved casually at Grace.

“Hey,” he said. “Didn’t know you’d still be here.”

“Sorry,” Grace replied, smiling at him quickly then turning her attention back to the spill. “Made a mess.”

“Better?” Hank asked, twisting his neck to casually gesture towards Connor’s ankle.

Connor looked down at his ankle, then averted his eyes to look down at Grace. She was looking back up at him. Connor returned his gaze to Hank after a split second of mutual silence.

“Much.”

[killian-whump]

In Which... Rogers takes one step forward and two steps back

Another chapter of my fic involving Detective Rogers, a dungeon, Eloise Gardener... and lots of chapters “in which” things happen.

For the previous chapters... [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2]

No specific warnings on this one, as there’s no content that should be inherently disturbing to anyone. I’ll warn you beforehand if there ever is.

It was sometime after Eloise Gardener's visit that Rogers decided to dismantle his prosthetic. He'd been unable to get a solid grip high enough on its forearm casing to pull the whole thing free from the strong suction that held it in place normally - but he was fairly sure he could break the wrist joint and detach the hand portion entirely. Of course, doing so blindly without causing any lasting damage to the hand or the sensitive electronic components used to connect it to the casing on his arm was another matter entirely.

Still, as much as he loathed the thought of possibly having to replace the damn thing, the knowledge that Eloise seemed to be capable of some sort of voodoo vine magic he still couldn't wrap his head around was enough to convince him that the high price (quite literally, in this case) might be worth it. Admittedly, it was a judgement call on what would be more useful to him - a freed left arm without a hand or a restrained arm with a functioning hand - but considering he suspected the charge in that hand was going to run out on him at any minute, the former was starting to look more and more appealing.

And at the very least, it gave him something to do and kept his mind off of Eloise and the excruciating pain in his jaw from wearing a ball gag so long.

He had no way of knowing how much time passed as he worked on his task, but when his left hand finally broke free, the handcuff on his left wrist fell uselessly away. A quick twist and tug on the casing just under his elbow freed him from that, as well, and he allowed himself a sigh of relief as he rubbed at the sore skin it revealed. His prosthetic was comfortable enough for a long day at the precinct and doing whatever else his life entailed, but it wasn't meant to be worn without any breaks for as long as he'd been wearing it.

Now, of course, he had nothing to distract him from his plight any longer. It was just him, the unyielding darkness behind his blindfold... and the knowledge that Eloise would eventually return, and that he probably wouldn't like whatever she had in mind for him.

He passed the time by sleeping and imagining all the different scenarios he could come up with that might lead to his escape. He also hummed a little, softly to himself, just to break the silence of the cavern. Classical music at first (he'd never really been one for the modern stuff), then some songs he remembered from his childhood. He could never remember where he’d actually heard them in his youth, as wretched as that time in his life was, but the memory of the songs themselves refused to ever leave him.

Of course, he fell silent the moment he heard the grating sound of the metal door of his prison opening. Holding his breath, he prayed it might be Weaver coming to his rescue... or maybe even Roni (why on Earth would it be Roni?) or Tilly (which seemed even sillier, somehow).

But alas...

"Oh, how cute," Eloise said with a grin he could fucking hear. "You broke your fancy hand. Well, seeing as your handcuffs are no longer keeping you under control the way they ought to be, you can take your own gag off."

He felt something hit his chest and bounce off, only to clatter on the ground beneath him. A key, he surmised. He grumbled behind the gag, but fumbled around with his right hand until he finally felt the key under his probing fingers. He tried the key in all of the locks at the back of his head, but was disappointed to find it only worked on the bottom lock. Still, one lock was far better than none, and he wasted no time pulling the ball gag out of his mouth.

He immediately regretted the pained whimper that broke from him as he was finally able to move his jaw once again, but there would've been no way he could've held it back even if he'd thought to. It fucking hurt.

"Yes, yes, I know," Eloise said dismissively. "If you behave yourself, we'll leave that off of you for a time. Would you like that?"

Rogers didn't dignify that with a response.

"Well, no mind. Did you miss me?"

"Like a bloody hole in the head," he ground out.

"Oh, now that's not nice."

As if he cared. "I already know who you are, Eloise, and I already know what you can do-"

"Is that so? And just what can I do, Detective?"

He frowned, his jaw muscles still screaming from the movement. "I don't know how you can do it, but... you made vines come out of the ground. I felt them retract and disappear. There's no point in hiding it from me, since I already figured it out, so let's do away with the blindfold."

"Oh, is that why you think I've blinded you?"

"Isn't it?" he asked.

"Of course not. I'm keeping you blind simply so you can't see what's coming next. It amuses me."

Well, that wasn't good news. Rogers decided to keep his thoughts on that to himself, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of knowing how much he hated being nothing more than a plaything for her.

"Speaking of what's coming next," Eloise continued, obviously not as bothered by his lack of an answer as he'd hoped she would be. "I can't have you running about the place like this. Where's the fun in that?"

There was the sharp sound of her snapping her fingers and then an odd scent suddenly permeated the air. Rogers only had a moment to register this change before he felt himself tumbling over onto the mattress he was sitting on - his body completely limp.

"See? Aren't surprises fun?" Eloise said cheerfully.

"Whaaaaa..." He tried to form words, to ask her what the hell she'd done to him, but his slack jaw refused to cooperate. In fact, everything refused to cooperate.

"Yes, yes, you're confused and alarmed," she mocked. "Let's move past that and get to me having fun."

He could hear the rustling sound of her clothing as she came closer, and he wondered for a moment just what the hell she was wearing with that much fabric. Still, the excess was certainly noisy - and he could use that to his advantage to keep track of her movements. He knew that could prove very useful indeed, although admittedly nowhere near as useful as being able to fucking move.

His breathing sped up as he felt her hands on him, pulling him into a seated position against her. He wanted to attack her, to throttle her with the chain keeping him prisoner here, but he knew it would be a bad idea even if he was capable of it (which, of course, he wasn't). If she didn't have the keys on her at the moment, he'd still be trapped in this hellhole with nothing but her corpse for company as he slowly starved to death. That wasn't quite how he wanted this all to end.

No sooner had he thought that then he felt Eloise unlocking the handcuff on his right wrist. Shit! She did have the keys with her, right there in her hand! He was free! He tried desperately to move, to will his body into any kind of motion that might help him take advantage of his sudden freedom... but to no avail. He couldn't move a muscle.

And she laughed. Eloise laughed. "I can feel you twitching, Captain. You're trying so hard to move right now, aren't you? And it's just no use. You're completely helpless, you poor little thing. How frustrating that must be for you."

He wanted to kill her. Couldn't. He really was as helpless as she said, and he hated her all the more for it.

"Now hold still for me," she mocked, knowing damn well he couldn't do anything else. She wrestled with his prone body then, pushing and pulling his arms into long sleeves of rough fabric with no apparent end. It was as she was buckling the back of the garment tightly closed that he realized what it was.

She was putting him in a straitjacket.

He groaned weakly in displeasure, the only real sound he was able to make at the moment.

"Oh, shush," she admonished. "You brought this on yourself, you know." She finished fastening the back straps, then pulled his arms tightly around himself and buckled them, as well. Another strap held his arms tightly to his chest, while one final strap was pulled tightly against his crotch.

"There,” Eloise said triumphantly. “Try that out now." She snapped her fingers and the air cleared, freeing him from whatever hold she'd had over him.

All his desperation and fury exploded from him like a powder keg set alight. He kicked and screamed at her, fighting against the straitjacket and trying desperately to get at her.

He got nowhere - and he got there fast. He was left panting breathlessly against the mattress where he lay, knowing she had him beat and hating it with every fiber of his being. "Why are you doing this to me?" he asked finally. "What the hell did I ever do to you?"

"You came in through my window, Captain. And you came on to me. We were magical together, you and I, and I'd thought for certain you'd come with me and we would seek our revenge together. But you... decided to stay with that brat, instead."

"What the hell are you talking about?!" Rogers cried. "And why do you keep calling me that? I'm not whoever it is you think I am!" He tried to settle himself down, tried to appeal to her sensibly in spite of his own spiraling emotions. "I'm sorry, Eloise. I'm sorry that I was drinking when you were taken. I'm sorry if you blame me, and I'm sorry if that's why you hate me. I hated myself for a long time, too. But that's no reason to do this to me. You've been locked up for so long, Eloise, I know you don't want to go to prison. And if you let me go now, I won't tell anyone what you've done. We'll get you the help you need and-"

"I don't need any help," she said simply. "I know exactly who I am and exactly what I'm after, Captain. It's you who needs the help. And this... See, this is precisely why I was keeping you gagged. Your face is so pretty, my dear, but this curse has really turned your mind to mush. You just don't remember anything right, and it's tiring trying to explain it all to you. Do you want me to gag you again? Is that what you want?"

He didn't want to answer her at all, to dignify that kind of humiliating question with an answer, but he was more afraid that she just might do what she was threatening. "No," he said shakily. "I don't want that."

"Good. Then stay still and shut up."

Rogers heard the sound of chains then, and felt something cool against his neck. "No," he said, trying to move away from Eloise's hands and the chain she was holding between them. "Eloise, don't. Please..."

She grabbed him and held him in place, her grip abnormally strong. "I told you to stay still," she said. "You don't listen very well, do you?"

He bit back a whimper as she padlocked the length of chain - the one he could only guess was still locked to the wall behind them - around his neck like a collar. There'd be no escape now. Just as there hadn't been any real chance of it before, either. The window where it might have been possible had just been slammed shut right in his face.

"There," she said with finality. He could hear her step back and brush her hands off on the noisy material of her skirts, obviously proud of her handiwork.

And Rogers could only imagine how he must look to her: helplessly trussed up on a flimsy mattress, chained to the wall like an animal, curled up at her feet like some pitiful supplicant. "Why are you doing this to me?" he asked her again. If there was ever a time to appeal to her for mercy, he supposed this might as well be it. "Eloise, please... Things don't have to be this way. You said something about wanting me to come with you. I'll do that. I'll go with you wherever you want, just please... Don't do this."

She crouched beside him. "Oh, my love," she whispered, stroking his cheek. It took everything he had not to shrink away from her touch or respond with revulsion.

"You are exactly how I want to keep you. What part of that don't you understand?" She stood again, her demeanor immediately reverting back to a business-like one. "Now I'm going to leave your food and water dishes here for you this time. You're free to sample them whenever you get hungry." She laughed slightly. "That is, if you manage to find them. Now I have some errands to run before I can visit you again, so don't get too lonely."

Rogers listened as she walked away from him.

"And don't get too excited about not being gagged, either. There's no one around for miles, my dear. No one can hear your screams, so there's no point in you losing your voice over it."

As if there was a chance in hell of him taking her at her word on that one.

The door clanged noisily as Eloise opened it. "Oh, and Captain, do give some thought to what I've said."

Then she was gone.

[deadcactuswalking]

REVIEWING THE CHARTS: 17/10/2020 (Headie One, D-Block Europe)

You know, I kind of expected a bigger impact from D-Block Europe given that this is their debut studio album. I guess maybe people are as sick of these guys as I am; the mixtapes they released got tracks higher on the chart than this, and that was without some of the big name features they had. Regardless, we still have nine songs to cover here, so... this week’s #1 is still “Mood” by 24kGoldn and iann dior, and welcome back to REVIEWING THE CHARTS.

Dropouts & Returning Entries

Last week had two album bombs – or at least whatever you can call “album bombs” on a chart that tries its hardest to stop those from happening – so naturally there are quite a few drop-outs and returning entries from the UK Top 75. Two of each from 21 Savage with Metro Boomin and Bryson Tiller are gone from last week, with the only songs from both albums still on the chart being the ones with a “(feat. Drake)” in the title. Typical. None of the BLACKPINK songs from last week have stayed either. Other than those six, we also have a handful of notable drop-outs like “What’s Love Got to Do with It” by Kygo and Tina Turner, “Hallucinate” by Dua Lipa and “POPSTAR” by DJ Khaled and Drake, which probably just felt the impact of dumb UK chart rules about streaming. All of these are pretty decent songs – the first two could have peaked a lot higher – so what in the returning entries is coming to replace them? Well, we have “Wishing Well” by the late Juice WRLD back at #74 and a theme of long-running hip-hop tracks like “Dinner Guest” by AJ Tracey and MoStack back at #72 and “I Dunno” by Dutchavelli featuring Tion Wayne and Stormzy at #68, all of which peaked in the top 20. The biggest gain this week was for Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams” which is in the top 40 this week and predicted to be even higher in the weeks to come, especially in the US. We usually send 40-year-old songs to #1 but the States seem to have caught up with that too. The biggest fall this week was for the debut last week, “Outta Time” by Bryson Tiller featuring Drake, plummeting from #24 to #58, which is understandable; I mean the only reason it got that high in the first place was because of Drake. Now, onto the new arrivals.

NEW ARRIVALS

#63 – “BLM” – OFB (Bandokay and Double Lz) featuring Abra Cadabra

Produced by N2theA

Like many people, fans and artists alike, due to the recent events in America and across the world, I’ve gained a renewed interest in protest music, particularly songs about systematic racism and police brutality. Many artists, including some of the biggest out right now like Lil Baby, have made songs about this recently but really this is not an isolated incident or chain of events. Rappers, musicians and activists have discussed these issues for years and the fact that the general public is finally latching onto some of it makes me hopeful. Seriously though, if you’re looking for a great song from a couple years back protesting against the same topic, “Don’t Don’t Do It!” by N.E.R.D. featuring Kendrick Lamar is right there. OFB is a drill collective from Tottenham, and the group actually contains some genuinely massive names, like Headie One and RV, but here, we just have Bandokay and Double Lz, as well as affiliate Abra Cadabra on the chorus. There’s also a sample of Coldplay here, which actually works as a melancholy piano component of this drill beat, even if it feels like a bizarre choice at first glance. I don’t really need to talk to you about the beat, right? In a song like this, content is what matters and, yeah, it makes a pretty solid case for itself sticking up to inhumane police officers, even if some of the lyrics do feel oddly surface level at times, particularly Abra Cadabra and Double Lz, even though he does have personal anecdotes to tell, but not as much as Bandokay on the first verse where he does get pretty damn in-depth.

There’s no evidence on S but 21 years got slapped to his chest / Yo, I just want P like Diddy, police on my back ‘cah I look like Pops

Bandokay is the son of the late Mark Duggan, a 29-year-old Black man who was unlawfully shot and killed by police in Tottenham in 2011, sparking protests and riots across Britain. This feels particularly profound but also unnerving from Bandokay because he sees himself as next in line for this treatment, talking about how it still haunts him and when he finds out about a friend of his getting life in prison, he’s stressed because he feels like it could very well be him locked up in there for reasons equally unjustified or clearly at the fault of minority disenfranchisement, particularly for young Black men who are driven to the streets because of it. Both Bandokay and Abra Cadabra discuss how gang culture is seen as an excuse for police officers to shoot, with the chorus digging into how because of the violence depicted in Black art due to segregation and societal issues still present in the modern world, that gives them the justification for assault and murder of innocent Black lives. Double Lz goes a bit off-topic here but I can’t say that recall of a phone conversation he had with his friend in jail doesn’t hit hard given the context, especially in a time where we feel more distant than ever with fellow humans. I don’t think it’s as good as “The Bigger Picture” but these guys definitely get my respect for this. Check it out.

#55 – “Proud” – D-Block Europe

Produced by Mind the Gap

And now for almost the exact opposite of social commentary, serious topics and melancholy production: D-Block Europe, although this isn’t actually D-Block Europe, it’s half of the band. Young Adz has three solo songs on this stupidly long album and Dirtbike LB has two, one of which has a feature so I’m pretty sure we all know who’s the Swae Lee in this British Rae Sremmurd... especially since Young Adz’s solo song debuted this high. The song is actually quite different from their standard fare at least in terms of lyrical content, with Adz going into the gang culture and its effect on his mental health, particularly his relationship and drug addiction. His off-beat nasal crooning here is actually kind of charming under these levels of Auto-Tune and a fast-paced trap beat that actually works a lot once it kicks in a minute and a half in. The second verse, particularly, is pretty excellent, where he dedicates the verse to his daughter, who he hopes will not follow in his footsteps of “lifestyles” but also promises her wealth and a continued faith in Islam. The way he talks about how he wants his daughter to succeed even if he dies and later on his companionship with Dirtbike LB is... kind of beautiful, honestly, and does make me look past the mixing issues and... interesting delivery from Young Adz. The uncredited whispery vocals from RAYE on the outro definitely add to the feel of the track and, yeah, I like this quite a lot more than I expected but it still doesn’t make me want to check out that album.

#53 – “I Miss U” – Jax Jones and Au/Ra

Produced by Jax Jones, Mark Ralph, Cass Lowe, Alex Tepper and Tom Demac

Hey, remember Au/Ra? Well, I didn’t either until I checked her Spotify page and saw she was behind that “Panic Room” song that I loved from last year, specifically the remix from CamelPhat – seriously, I’d like to see more on the charts from those guys too. I’m not sure Jax Jones will be able to live up to the brilliantly-constructed ominous future house of that song, but this is supposed to be a silly love or break-up song so I expect a cute, vaguely tropical radio-friendly dance-pop tune with some 90s deep house influence thrown in there, like most of Jax’s stuff ends up being. Anyone else kind of sick of this stuff? I know it gets plays in the clubs which are still in the UK and much of Europe, using this type of dance music, but this robotic draining of the emotion from generic break-up tunes sang by indie-adjacent women over a four-on-the-floor beat is something I’ve heard hundreds of times before. I know this has been a British staple for decades but the new-ish style of vocal drops and generally tired production is growing pretty stale for me at least. It can work when it does, and Au/Ra isn’t a bad fit for this slick, beeping production – this is a pretty okay song all things considered – but there’s not any warmth or quality in this type of stuff anymore, let alone variation. This song is fine but I do hope it kind of underperforms for Jax just to set a precedent that this is exhausting and honestly kind of a cheap ploy for plays at this point. Is that too harsh? Probably, but after two and a half years of seeing these types of songs every other week, it gets on your nerves.

#49 – “Not a Pop Song” – Little Mix

Produced by Robin Oliver Fred, Tayla Parx and MNEK, peaked at #37 in Ireland

Does that mean I don’t have to review it? I want to like this girl group, especially after they ditched the manufactured pop image from Syco and signed to another label that I assume does not treat him as horrifically, but I feel like the music hasn’t changed or gotten any more interesting at all. In fact, this song serves as kind of a diss track to Simon Cowell, and not in any way a subtle one at that. “I don’t do what Simon says”? I mean, don’t you guys also have a talent show you executive-produced, and is airing currently on the BBC? Sigh, well, is the song any good? Well, it tries a little bit more with that guitar loop but not with the clunky trap beat, the harmonised triplet flows in the pre-chorus that sound awkward, and most importantly, the lyrics, which are otherwise fine in how they represent the music industry, a corrupt and unfriendly business, but not in a way that feels like it’s revealing any secrets or anything that really hits. Especially the chorus, where that “I don’t give a what” chant just undermines the whole message. Shouldn’t the point be that now you CAN swear on your songs? I don’t know, this is just worthless but admittedly a lot more listenable than their last record so I’ll give it to them there, even if it is out of a clear effort to be as inoffensive as possible.

#46 – “Flowers” – Chip

Produced by Dready

So, in Chip’s pretty garbage verse on “Waze” earlier this year, he took some shots at an underground artist that many assumed were shots at Stormzy, who commented on this with some subliminals on “I Dunno”. Naturally, in response to this light-hearted beef from two former good friends all based on misinterpretation, Stormzy pulled up to the guy’s house, with only Chip’s brother and sister being home. His sister even felt the need to pull out a kitchen knife to defend herself, so, yeah, I have no sympathy for Stormzy here. Unless this is based on personal drama that we don’t know of, he really unnecessarily escalated this petty dispute. Hence, Chip has two diss tracks here, this is the first of them; the other didn’t chart. To quote Chip’s manager, Ashley Rae, who is also name-dropped in the song: Stormzy pulled up unannounced to Chip’s building with three other people. The building was secure with gates and an intercom system. He didn’t knock. He came in and was posted in the car park screaming for Chip to come outside. After being told to leave twice as Chip wasn’t home, he refused and made his way to Chip’s apartment on the top floor where family were inside and it got heated. He caused a commotion so the neighbours called the police. This diss track seems to share my view of the situation; Chip even briefly brings up the political climate as he talks about how Stormzy should have expected the police to be called – after all, when people in Essex see black men shouting outside a building, regardless of their innocence, the authorities seem to get involved. In this diss track, Chip calls back to other disses he’s made, notes his disappointment in Stormzy collaborating with Ed Sheeran when he’s the one who escalated to potential violence – you’d think he’d be smarter not to risk his image – and sending some personal shots at his break-up with Maya Jama, which actually made me chuckle, particularly when he says that a throwaway track on a collaborative album seems to have incited a bigger reaction than that long-term relationship coming to an end. He goes even deeper into how he thinks Stormzy’s activism is hypocritical if he wants to incite black-on-black violence by pulling up to Chip’s house, and references the late 2Pac and Pop Smoke and... okay, he just ravages Stormzy here, and it helps that this beat is menacing, even if I don’t like Chip’s delivery or voice, as I never have. “Killer MC”, the other diss track, is a lot vaguer and with a pretty chaotic beat which Chip can barely flow on, so yeah, I’m glad this one charted. Man, a lot of aggressive, lyrically-focused songs today, huh?

#34 – “Destiny” – D-Block Europe

Produced by Jony Beats

And just like that, they appear. This is our second and last song from that D-Block Europe album debuting this week, and it’s only high because of a video anyway – that and the fact it’s the first on the album. Otherwise, this is typical D-Block Europe fare, albeit this time with a hilarious but absolutely pointless 30-second acoustic guitar intro that just consists of the guys whispering “Destined” with as much reverb as possible. Dirtbike LB is actually on the hook this time, making it even more lethargic. Young Adz is filling in empty space with ad-libs again, including his signature “SKI!”, and in his first verse here, I genuinely laughed out loud after that booming “bow-bow-bow-bow” vocal interlude coming out of nowhere. It honestly caught me off-guard. I kinda like Young Adz’s pretty energetic flow here though, and he definitely plays with the boring trap beat in a way that is pretty funny. He feels the need to say “Happy G-day” to a person in the booth with him, which shows that he’s freestyling at least some of this stuff, which is kind of impressive. He “endorses” new straps, which is just funny wording to me, as is when he says 9 Goddy “had” Norwich, like he just owned the city – although, as a fellow East Midlander, I kind of appreciate the shout out. My favourite part in the verse is probably his attempt at 2012 hashtag-rap, where he says “half a mil’, mortgage”, but the beat cuts out when he mutters a wimpy “rurr” ad-lib, and that almost forgives his weedy delivery and gross Auto-Tune. I think “Rurr, mortgage” makes up for the chorus, “Break a brick like Tetris”. Honestly, I get why people prefer Adz’s energy and funny content because the only thing to laugh at with Dirtbike LB’s bleak, almost depressing lyrics about materialism, meaningless sex and drug addiction, is how he phrases everything in a manner that is uniquely middle-class and polite, especially in this verse, and how he just seems to be accepting the dark topics he talks about in his verse with a shrug of his shoulders. It’s kind of concerning, I mean, I don’t like the music but I hope he’s okay. In conclusion, the song’s fine and honestly I kind of love the first verse but that chorus is dull and really it’s a pretty poorly-mixed trap cut. To be honest, if there’s more of this energy from Adz on the album, I might just check it out. The guy’s growing on me recently.

#29 – “Cool with Me” – Dutchavelli and M1llionz

Produced by The Fanatix

Apparently this guy is Stefflon Don’s brother, and now that she has been pretty quiet recently, I guess it’s time for Dutchavelli to step into the limelight, and he’s bringing fellow Birmingham rapper M1llions with him for a song with not much of a chorus to speak of. Instead, Dutchavelli and M1llionz trade verses and bars for three minutes over a pretty banging drill beat, with an eerie choral sample throughout and honestly pretty great verses from the two of them here. Dutchavelli sounds really aggressive here and I love the yelling in the ad-libs, even if it adds to some questionable vocal mixing throughout. M1llionz’s casual, meandering flow and cadence works really well in contrast, even if really nothing is said here other than gunplay and flexing. The beat feels like it never properly drops at all, and it just slides out abruptly by the end, but if this is an intro track to an upcoming album with a following track that drops us straight into it, I could see this working. As is, well, I’ve not got much to say about it but this is decent.

Also, I’d like to point out Dutch’s Wikipedia page, particularly the “in popular culture” section.

Dutchavelli has gained a reputation for being a hard man. This paired with his large stature has lead to a proliferation of memes relating to this within popular culture such as 'When Dutchavelli goes to a club, he asks the bouncer for ID'.

God, I love Wikipedia.

#24 – “Parlez-Vouz Anglais” – Headie One featuring Aitch

Produced by Al Hug and Ambezza

Okay, so our last two songs are both from Headie One and his overly long, 20+ track album he released last week, Edna. Do you see a trend with these British rap artists and debut albums? To be fair, I am more interested in this album, and I’ll probably listen to it after writing this. The feature list looks pretty good – I mean, it’s got Drake, Kenny Beats, Skepta and ironically, Young Adz on a song that did NOT chart this week – and I really loved “Both” from last year, so it’s probably worth checking out at least some of the songs. This song, however, was not one of those I was interested in. Man, I’m so angry I come back to this show and get back-to-back weeks with high debuts from rappers featuring this pioneer of gentrified drill music. He’s already made a song romanticising French women and high fashion as well, so it’s not like this is new territory for the guy. Admittedly, I do enjoy this cute, lounge-y elevator music sample but it feels pretty drowned-out by both the bog-standard UK drill beat and awkward flows from both, who are doing a similar thing to Dutchavelli and M1llionz did in the last song we talked about, but with more repetition to fill up time and more trading bars between the two, as well as an actual chorus, which is about as dull as bricks. Both Aitch and Headie have uninteresting flows and use awkward ad-libs to disguise a clear lack of any attempts at good wordplay or content that goes any further than worryingly blatant misogyny from Aitch and constant flexing. It’s not interesting, and it’s not good either.

#11 – “Princess Cuts” – Headie One featuring Young T & Bugsey

Produced by iO and TobyShyBoy

I’m not surprised this was the track that debuted this high. Thanks to TikTok picking up “Don’t Rush”, which is a brilliant song by the way, this group isn’t just big in the UK like most of these rappers, they are genuinely global superstars for the British hip hop scene and I love that. They made Aitch’s debut onto the charts both listenable and promising on “Strike a Pose” (It’s really a feat) and are constantly bringing smooth flows and Bugsey’s really nice voice over good production. They are more than deserving of being how British hip hop is viewed worldwide, even as they got onto the Hot 100 with Headie One earlier this year. I was surprised too. So, yeah, I’m excited to hear this new collaboration between the two artists, and, surprise, surprise, it’s really good. I love the nostalgic early-mid-2000s R&B beat especially with that slick Latin guitar and pounding bass groove. I love Young T singing on the hook over really beautiful vocodered samples and funky keys in the instrumental. I love Headie’s pretty impressive and at times smooth flow in his two verses. I love how Young T & Bugsey share a sing-songy cadence in their verse. Man, I love everything about this song sonically, and content-wise, the lyrics don’t really leave that much to be desired either. Sure, it’s pretty much just towing the line between a hook-up jam and flexing, but there’s enough funny lines and convincing delivery to make this worth checking out. I also love how Headie starts the smooth, sexy hook-up jam with “My young boy got the stick like Moses with the Israelites” in his deep, gruff tone, which is just comedy gold. Headie also takes time to praise the Lord and show his limited knowledge of geography, which is either insensitive to Asians or satirical depending on how you look at it. Either way, it works and it’s funny. This is just an incredible song and I hope it sticks around. Check it out.

Conclusion

There’s actually not much here to complain about, even with D-Block Europe’s two songs here. Little Mix take the Dishonourable Mention for “Not a Pop Song” and Worst of the Week is going to Headie One for “Parlez-Vouz Anglais” featuring Aitch but I might as well balance that out by giving the guy Best of the Week for “Princess Cuts” with Young T & Bugsey. I don’t want Stormzy to pull up to my house next, so I’ll delay on giving Chip the Honourable Mention, but that is instead going to “BLM” by Bandokay, Double Lz and Abra Cadabra for simply being necessary, although I’m scared to admit Young Adz was pretty close here. I don’t know what’ll happen next week – hopefully not that new Kanye song – but here’s the top 10 for Friday’s chart:

You can follow me @cactusinthebank for occasional political Twittage and I’ll see you next week.

[timetospy]

Could you please a 00q fic based on the sex scene from The Thomas Crown Affair remake?

This was quite fun, thank you for this prompt! I hope this is what you had in mind

Obviously NSFW, so under a cut

Contents: 00Q, anal sex, rimming, blowjobs, Bond is a charming asshole - but what else is new

Bond sets the Walther down on Q’s desk, and Q can’t quite believe what he’s looking at. It’s in one piece. One whole entire piece. He looks from Bond to the Walther and back again.

“Well done, Double-Oh-Seven,” he says, and the words want to stick in his throat. It’s not like Bond needs the compliment - the man’s ego is inflated enough as it is.

“Thank you, Q,” Bond purrs and flashes that infuriating grin that sets fire to Q’s insides. He saunters out of the Branch and Q watches him go. There are already rumors flying, despite Q doing his level best to keep it professional, and Q has quit pretending he doesn’t find Bond unbearably attractive. Doesn’t mean he’s slept with the arsehole, but he allows himself to look his fill, and James puts on a good show - hips swinging just so under his suit jacket.

Q tears his eyes away as Bond rounds the corner toward the exit and picks up the Walther. He frowns. Something’s wrong with the gun, but he can’t quite tell what it is and just as he’s about to pull the slide back, an alarm sounds. Hildebrand shouts something unintelligible over the immediate din in the bullpen. Q sighs. Of course there would be a metaphorical fire on the other side of the globe right at this moment. He sets the Walther aside and gets to work.

It isn’t until well after he’s supposed to have gone home that Q once again takes up the Walther mystery. He hefts it in his hand. He immediately notices the balance is off, and idly pulls on the slide to check the chamber. The slide doesn’t move, not even a millimeter, and Q scowls. He tries taking the weapon apart, but none of the parts will loosen. It’s when he’s trying to dislodge the clip that he figures it out: it’s been super-glued together.

Q’s face twists in disgust. He’d actually complimented that...that cock-mongering bastard and it had all been a ruse, a put-on, a farce. He slams the gun down onto the table, and on impact it shatters into its component parts.

“Where is that sack of shit? Right now, where is he?”

The bullpen jumps, scurries satisfyingly at his words.

As Q glares at his screen, waiting for a small green blip to appear over a map of London, an idea begins to percolate in the back of his mind, and the glare becomes a terrifying grin.

***

The blonde is a terrible conversationalist. Bond’s not really listening to her, but he doesn’t need to. It’s the same old drivel, and he makes appeasing noises when he notices a pause, and she’ll go home later that night and tell her friends what a wonderful listener he was.

He thinks about taking her to a hotel, then dismisses it as a bad job. She’s pretty, of course, but looks don’t make up for everything. She is a decent dancer, though, so there’s that. He tries not to think about what it would be like dancing with Q instead. The man would never let his professional guard down long enough to do something so base as dance.

Bond almost feels bad about his ruse with the Walther. Almost.

But hearing those words from Q’s lips had been so utterly satisfying, the resulting temper tantrum was likely worth it. And now that he knew what it sounded like, maybe he’d be tempted to try and actually bring his kit back in one piece.

“What’s so funny about Chanel retiring seafoam as their on-trend color?” the blonde asks, frowning in a way that Bond is certain she thinks is cute, but only manages to make her look constipated. How unlike Q, who manages to look like an affronted housecat even when livid. His lips curl into a smile at that.

“Did I say something funny?” the blonde asks, her sharp tone pulling Bond from his thoughts at last.

“Did you mean to?” Bond replies smoothly. He’s not looking to get a laugh out of her, but does anyway. She must think he’s trying to be charming.

He spins her across the dance floor of Maury’s Piano Bar - it’s on the near side of pretentious, with a wine list longer than his arm, all dark wood and polished brass and burgundy leather. But he knows the owner, and Ned is always glad to have him on the dance floor, and Bond is happy to oblige when he’s in town and in the mood. He has to admit the ensemble tonight is excellent. It’s a pity the company doesn’t measure up to the music. For the four hundredth time, Bond wishes it were Q instead of this blonde in his arms regardless of how utterly daft the idea is. There’s a lull in the music, and the blonde stops moving so suddenly Bond’s concerned for half a moment that he’s trodden on her foot. She spins away, and he can barely believe his eyes.

Q stands in front of him, dressed to the nines in a hunter green sport coat that follows the line of his body, and Bond’s jaw tries to drop. He keeps it in place with a force of will that he wasn’t sure until that very moment he possessed.

Q cocks his head, sizing up the blonde, then narrows his eyes at Bond.

“I’m cutting in.” The blonde’s face contorts, puzzled, and Bond watches her mentally shrug and move to dance with Q, who laughs. “Not you. Him.”

Bond’s eyebrows raise, and the corners of his mouth turn up. He reaches for Q, and now the blonde really looks confused. God knows what she’s thinking, but she scoffs and stalks off the dance floor just as the music picks up tempo. It’s a slinky bossa nova and Bond can’t quite believe his luck as Q steps in to take the blonde’s place.

“Did you really think you’d get away with it?” Q asks as Bond spins them towards the center of the dance floor.

“And here I thought it would make you laugh,” Bond says. Q’s graceful, light on his feet, following Bond easily through the steps. Bond’s ghost of a smile sticks in place, an easy expression in this moment, countered by Q’s cracked glare. Amusement sparks in Bond’s eyes as he realizes Q’s enjoying himself despite everything.

“I cannot imagine you ever making me laugh,” Q mutters as Bond pulls him in close after a spin-out.

“That sounds like a challenge,” Bond says into Q’s ear. “Either that or you have a terrible sense of humor.”

“There is nothing wrong with my sense of humor, merely your idea of a joke.”

Bond laughs at this. Q is willing to match him barb for barb, and Bond loves a verbal shoot-out nearly as much as an actual one.

“This little dance we do,” Bond says, picking up the pace of his steps, “poking at each other, looking for the chinks in the armor. Does it excite you? Is that really the game you want to play?”

Bond spins them and dips Q without warning, and Q’s eyes widen, his pulse throbbing in his neck and Bond wants to taste it, wants to taste it so badly that he can feel the want in the back of his throat. The only way to clear it is to speak.

“Or…,” Bond can’t believe he’s doing this, can’t believe they are doing this. How many times had Q danced through his thoughts, and how many times had Bond convinced himself it would never be? And now here he is, in his arms, heart beating wildly, “do you really want to play something else?”

He watches as Q’s adam’s apple bobs once, twice as he swallows and Bond lifts him slowly out of the dip. Their eyes lock, and the moment stretches on, and on, and Bond is drowning in bottle-green.

Q’s staring at him, all the animosity drained out of his expression, and something else, something more heated, fills his eyes.

Bond doesn’t know who moves first, but in the end it hardly matters - they kiss, hard and desperate. Q grasps at his neck, Bond’s fingers tangle in Q’s hair. The music fades from his perception, and the entire world is in Q’s mouth. He advances a step, hands moving from Q’s hair to his shoulders and Q clutches at his lapels. They break apart with a gasp, and Bond suddenly realizes what’s just happened. His eyes scan the crowd, taking in the reaction. It’s an old habit. There are a few stares but none are angry. His hackles recede to the background again, and he guides Q to a secluded corridor behind the dance floor by his lapels.

Q’s hands slide under Bond’s jacket, hot and insistent against his sides, up his back, and James groans into Q’s perfect neck and takes his first delectable taste. Q gasps, arches his back, and Bond can feel Q’s erection pressing into the crease of his thigh, and every muscle in his body tenses at the touch.

Q’s lips are nearly as warm as his hands - which have travelled south and are kneading at his arse as he presses Q against the wall, his elbows bracketing Q’s head as they kiss, and kiss, and kiss…

***

The ride to Bond’s flat is an exercise in torture - hands roaming, whispers in the dark, all while Bond darts through traffic like a heathen, causing more than one cab to blare its horn. This wasn’t what Q had had in mind when he went to go confront Bond. He’d meant to berate him, perhaps humiliate him, not end up arching into Bond’s hand like a teenager as they speed through another amber signal.

Bond pulls to a screaming halt outside his flat. It’s smack in the middle of Notting Hill, and Q lets out a low whistle. Bond smirks at him as he opens the door and ushers Q into a frankly ostentatious entry hall.

“Sometimes,” Bond says as he locks the door behind them, “a place like this just...falls into your lap.”

“Know the former owner, then?” Q asks as he runs a finger over the marble statue resting comfortably in the curve of the stairway.

“Intimately,” Bond murmurs, and Q turns to see him loosening his tie. There’s something about the motion, about the intent of it, that sends lightning shooting through Q’s gut, and he bites his lip as he shrugs out of his sport coat and lets it fall from his shoulders to puddle around his feet.

He knows what happens next, and he knows it’s the worst idea he’s ever had. But dammit, if he only has this one chance, he’s going to take it. He’s managed enough missions to know that Bond is no slouch in bed, and more than once he’s wondered what it would be like to be on the receiving end of that intensity.

He’s about to find out.

Bond stalks towards him like a great cat on the hunt, suit jacket falling to the floor as he approaches, and god damn, no man has a right to look that good in braces, but he does. His fingers are numb as he fumbles at the buttons of his shirt. Too slow, he’s too slow, but somehow his shirt falls open as Bond takes the last step, closing the distance between them, and Bond’s hands, calloused and rough and so, so warm slip between fabric and shoulder and slide his shirt to the floor.

Q takes a breath and his eyes slide shut as Bond bends to taste his neck just over the pulse point. Bond crowds him against the wall, and Q pulls at his undone tie, sliding it from his collar with one smooth tug, then working on Bond’s buttons.

Q can barely concentrate as Bond’s wicked mouth ghosts across his shoulders, collarbone, neck, ear, the almost-touch of his mouth maddening.

“I’m still,” Q hisses as Bond’s teeth find a tendon in his neck, “upset about the gun.”

“Mmm. But you know, you wouldn’t be here but for that.”

Q groans as Bond tweaks a nipple, and he doesn’t have the wherewithal to refute Bond’s logic at this point, and Bond knows it.

“Shut up and get on with it,” Q says instead as he ruts against Bond’s leg, desperate now for something more, something less, anything at all.

“Tsk. So impatient. All in good time, Q.”

And god, the way he says that letter makes it sound filthy, and it’s on the tip of Q’s tongue to give him his name, just so he can hear how the vowels sit in Bond’s mouth, see the way those lips shape the sounds. He kisses Bond instead, hard and demanding, biting at those perfect lips.

Bond lifts him, backing him against the statue, settling their hips together so their still-clothed cocks slot against each other with delicious friction, and they both groan into the other’s mouth. Bond backs away, Q wrapped around him, and takes a few steps toward the stairs, stutters, then lays Q down on the floor of the foyer and tugs his trousers and pants down to his ankles with one swift pull.

This isn’t Q’s first time around the block, but here, with Bond above him, he feels stripped in a way that has little to do with clothes. Bond is every inch the predator here, hungry, prowling, cornering his prey - which Q suddenly realizes he is. It’s a heady feeling, being on the receiving end of such a stare. He wants to know what it’s like to be devoured.

Q kicks off his shoes and wriggles the rest of the way out of his clothes, stretching his arms out above his head, schooling his face into a semblance of vulnerability.

Bond trails a finger down the center of Q’s chest, pausing to tweak his nipples, drawing out a hiss, then toying with the nest of dark curls at the base of Q’s leaking cock.

“Do you always play with your food?” Q asks as Bond’s hand trails around to Q’s hip, thigh, knee, everywhere but where Q wants him.

“Only when it plays back,” Bond replies, and bends to kiss Q’s belly.

When Bond’s mouth finally, finally closes around his cock, Q nearly comes on the spot. He only hangs onto his dignity by a shred, digging his fingernails into his palms as Bond swallows him down, again and again. It’s like his very soul is being siphoned out of his body through his cock, but he doesn’t want it to be over--not like this, not yet. With every last ounce of willpower he has left, Q pushes Bond away, presses his advantage, and rolls Bond onto his back. Q climbs over him, smoothing his palms over Bond’s chiseled pecs. They really are as solid as they look, and Q is fascinated. Lips follow fingers across Bond’s body, tasting the skin he’d forbidden himself to touch for so long.

This isn’t anything but self-indulgence, but Q gave the ruse of professionalism up the minute he let Bond lead him across the dance floor. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, really, although Q’s continually surprised at Bond’s interest. His off-the-clock companions tended to be, with very few exceptions, female, and Q had chalked it up to a dead-end crush. Obviously, he was blessedly wrong. For once.

A small voice in the back of Q’s mind tells him that the whole thing is a set-up to get Q exactly where he is, but a much larger part doesn’t much care as he eases Bond’s thick cock out of his trousers and flicks his tongue over the tip. The bitter tang of precome and salt are the most potent aphrodisiac - as if he’d needed more - and it’s Q’s turn to swallow Bond down. His lips stretch pleasantly around Bond’s girth, and he moans as he opens his throat.

It isn’t long before Bond is pushing Q off and rolling him over, backing him up against the bottom of the stairs. Over and over, back and forth, they make their way upstairs trading pleasure for pleasure, the gasps and groans and cries echoing through the foyer as they climb step by step to the landing.

Q lands on his arse on the top step with a grunt, Bond just below him. Their breath comes in great heaves and both are covered in a sheen of sweat. Bond crawls towards him up the stairs, grinning. Q scrambles away, backwards, and Bond lunges, misses his ankle by a hair’s breadth, and falls with a grunt to the carpet. Q takes his chance. He jumps up, and before Bond can regain his composure - what’s left of it - Q sits astride him, knees in his armpits. To Q’s shock, Bond raises up on hands and knees, and crawls forward. Q hoots and slaps Bond’s arse.

“Giddyap!” he calls, and laughter bubbles up and spills out of his mouth. It’s utterly ridiculous and somehow also completely erotic, this impromptu rodeo. Bond rears back, and Q holds tight, laughing all the harder for Bond’s embracing the role.

Bond all but prances into a room that looks remarkably like a study that opens into a bedroom behind, but they don’t quite make it to the bed before Bond finally pitches Q headfirst into a club chair. He’s still laughing madly as he scrambles up into a seated position in the chair and peers at a bottle of water on the occasional table. He swipes it, takes a long drink, then pours some out over Bond’s head as he looks up at Q.

Bond pushes a hand up through his hair, wiping the water out of his eyes, and that predator’s gleam re-ignites in the glacier-blue depths.

“Did you think I was done?” Bond asks, pulling Q’s hips forward.

“I’d rather hoped not,” Q replies glibly, but swallows, ruining the effect.

“By the way,” Bond says, kissing at Q’s inner thigh. “I did make you laugh.”

The observation, apropos of nothing, pulls another bark of laughter from Q, and Bond grins again.

“I always get what I want, in the end,” Bond says.

“And you want me?” Q asks, sitting up and running his fingers through Bond’s hair.

Bond doesn’t answer, but he does pull Q forward with a jerk and lifts his legs in the air so that Q is on his back in the club chair, Bond once more between his thighs. But this time, he’s not swallowing Q’s cock. He dips lower, tasting Q’s hole, and Q groans, long and low, wriggling closer to Bond. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

It isn’t long before a lube-slick finger joins Bond’s tongue, then a second. It’s been a while, but Q is half-drunk on pleasure, and Bond’s fingers find just the right spot to set Q dripping, and within a minute he’s begging with all but his voice.

Bond grins, pulling his fingers out and leaving Q feeling empty for a moment while he rolls on a condom and slicks himself. Q has about three seconds to catch his breath, then Bond is pressing in, torturously slowly, stretching Q wide. It burns deliciously, every nerve alive to the point of breaking.

Q scrabbles at the armrests of the chair, needing something to cling to as Bond starts to move inside him, slowly, pushing deeper and deeper until their hips meet. Bond’s eyes slide shut, and he groans - the sound echoing what Q would never admit: ‘I’ve wanted this for so long; finally, finally.’ Bond pulls out and the loss of him so soon after being filled is maddening. Q reaches for him, and Bond is already there, lifting him out of the chair. He swipes an arm across the coffee table behind them sending papers and magazines scattering in all directions, then lays Q down.

There’s a moment of pause, Bond hovering, gazing down at Q, and the expression is fleeting, momentary. Afterwards, Q isn’t sure he saw the way his eyes softened at all, can’t recall the specifics enough to know it wasn’t his imagination that smoothed the lines around his mouth, eased the tightness in his shoulders. But in the moment, it is everything, and Q lets his expression slide open, accepting. Whatever this is, whatever it becomes, for this moment Q allows Bond to see. It will likely get him into trouble - Bond isn’t one for sentiment - but there’s little Q can do to stop it.

And in a flash, the moment is over, and Bond hooks one of Q’s knees over his shoulder and fucks into him without preamble, staring Q down with those impossible blue eyes. It’s every fantasy Q’s ever had, every daydream, every late night in the shower.

A bright mottled flush spreads across Bond’s chest as his rhythm speeds up, staring into Q’s eyes and blinking the sweat out of his own. It’s intense in a way Q hasn’t known. This molten steel ribbon twisting between them, tying itself in knots at the base of Q’s spine, and every thrust, every grunt of effort, every drop of sweat ties another knot, pulling them closer and closer and closer.

It’s all so much, Q can’t catch his breath. He tries to hang on to Bond, but his fingers can’t find purchase, and he has to settle for the edge of the coffee table - his knuckles go white. Skin slaps skin as Bond snaps his hips, lost to his own pleasure, now, chasing it inside Q.

Q wraps a hand around his own cock, matching Bond thrust for thrust, and the steel ribbon creaks at the breaking point. Bond shifts his angle ever so slightly, brushes Q’s prostate, and the ribbon snaps. A soul-deep groan oozes out of Q’s mouth like lava, and come splatters across his chest, pools in his navel, dribbles, finally, over his fingers. Bond isn’t far behind, and as Q shudders with aftershocks, Bond stutters to a halt, teeth clenched, buried to the hilt inside Q.

They rest for a moment, and Q turns to kiss Bond on the cheek as he catches his breath.

***

The next morning finds Bond seated at the kitchen table wrapped in a brown dressing gown with well-worn elbows, the morning paper, and a steaming mug of coffee. Q wanders in, his own dressing gown distressingly white and fluffy and new. Q hopes it’s a failed Christmas gift, and not an indicator that he’d been expected. He yawns and takes a seat opposite Bond, nabbing one of the other sections of the paper and wrinkling his nose when he discovers it’s Sport.

“Good morning,” Bond says, and nudges a second steaming mug towards Q, who picks it up suspiciously and sniffs it, takes a sip, then another, eyes wide in surprise. It’s Earl Grey, fixed just how Q likes it, and he narrows his eyes across the table.

“You didn’t just pop out to the shops this morning for tea, did you. I know you don’t keep it - you tell me often enough how you loathe ‘grass water.’”

“Well, I do hate tea, and no, I didn’t pop out to the shops this morning.” Bond’s response is casual to a fault, and he folds the paper over to peer at Q with that self-satisfied smirk.

“Dammit, I hate being a foregone conclusion.”

Bond, that infuriating arsehole, simply grins and passes the toast.